


Yearning

by lttledcve, spinncr



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actually decent strategy for the battle of winterfell, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Sansa Stark, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of mutilation and torture, Schmoopy jaime, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, courtesy of ramsey, fight us on it, no one can keep jaime and sansa apart, not even themselves, nothing is depicted in story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: Common understanding is that a Mark is the name of a soulmate, but he knows that’s not true because his don’t match. There are theories that Marks are the will of the gods, but there are no gods so he doesn’t believe that either. Then there are the ones who say the Marks are who you want the most, the ones that you yearn for with your soul, not not just your body or heart. But that’s not right, either.Jaime has always hated his Mark.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 383





	1. i. misnomer

**Author's Note:**

> A new idea by lttledcve and I! This quick little story is complete and is a very different change of pace from Valar Dohaeris. Let us know what you think!

**_s a n s a:_ **

It’s not the first time the thought that the Gods are playing a great big jape on her crosses her mind, only now Sansa is starting to suspect it might not be that at all.

At one time in her life she had been convinced that the name that would eventually appear on her body, embedded deep in her skin would be that of the soon to be King Joffrey Baratheon. It was the stuff of stories and songs, the young maiden destined by the Gods to be with the King, to be the future Queen, their souls bound together by something bigger than the rest of Westeros.

That hope had turned to fear, and then to prayers that her name would not be found on his skin.

Perhaps, she thinks wryly, she should have been more specific with the childish prayer of  _ anyone but him.  _ Perhaps the Gods do not care to hear her thoughts or desires or feelings, much like Cersei or anyone here at King’s Landing.

Perhaps she was destined by that very something more to betray her family. To run to a Lannister Queen instead of trusting her father’s judgment, to bear the name of a Lannister even though his house is responsible for the murders of her father, mother and brother.

What if it’s not a jape at all?

She can even recall every thought she’s had about the infamous Kingslayer. The first had been brief, after he had arrived with the royal family on their trip to Winterfell- the very moment Sansa wishes she could go back to, to shake herself and tell herself not to go. To not be so bloody stupid. But Ser Jaime Lannister had removed his helmet in a way that seemed to reaffirm every song ever written about the handsome knight, and she had heard some contemplate over their cups at the feast that night how that was how a king was supposed to look.

Robert Baratheon might once have been the man from the songs of his Rebellion, but it’s easy to see why others would make such a statement when the drunkard King stumbled through Winterfell, and Jaime Lannister appeared very much the Golden Lion.

She had been too focused on a different Golden Lion to notice anything other than the fact that the Knight truly did cut an impressive figure.

No, the first time she had truly considered Jaime Lannister had been when the news had come back to King’s Landing that he was her brother’s prisoner. Lords were careful not to mention much in front of her regarding the politics surrounding her brother, unless Joffrey wanted to play another one of his games.

Briefly she wondered if the Knight’s captivity was better than her own. What kind of treatment would Robb give to the man who was a part of the family who had done all of this to them? She may not have known her brother in his role of King in the North, but even still Sansa cannot bring herself to believe that he was capable of the same cruelties that Cersei Lannister and her evil son are. Wartime or otherwise.

Then it had been the longing – the desire to trade places with Ser Jaime Lannister, to be where he was stuck in one of her brother’s camps with them both, and their men. The thoughts of what she would give to trade places with him, to be there – anywhere but King’s Landing.

Her daydreams had centered around that and the hope that Robb would have negotiated for her release, that surely after all this time, with an opportunity he would do anything he could to bring her home. And that hope had stupidly,  _ foolishly _ , been that perhaps Jaime Lannister would secure her release when he returned.

He took too long to- and instead gifted her with something else. Shae had noticed it first when helping her dress, the name etched into her skin that hadn’t been there the night before. “Hurry,” she had begged, wanting to lace her clothes as tightly and neatly as possible before one of the Queen’s spies could make an appearance and report back. If no one could see, if no one could  _ know _ ...

In the end, it hadn’t mattered. Not when Joffrey ordered his guards to strip her, to beat her in the grand hall with her new mark fully on display.

_ Jaime _ .

Only Tyrion Lannister had intervened, offering her something to cover herself before she could flee from all the watching eyes.

But that wasn’t the last jape by any means.

She didn’t cry, didn’t allow her hands to shake at Joffrey’s whispers of Lannister babies. Even with their betrothal broken, her marriage to Tyrion Lannister in the grand Sept, none of that mattered to him. It didn’t matter what Lannister put a babe in her belly. Some days the threat was meant to imply it would be Joffrey instead of Tyrion, but the King seemed to have a new favorite way of implying that either way it would never be the man who’s name she bore.

As if it would somehow  _ break  _ her.

Sansa can’t fathom why the thoughts plague her now. Shae had made a convincing argument to sit by the bay, to watch the ships come and go. Somehow, despite her own declaration of not caring, watching them brings back old feelings and thoughts of stowing away, of Jaime Lannister being the key to helping her get back North, to her family, and maybe that’s the biggest jape of all.

The sun makes her squint, and as she raises her hand to try and shield her eyes she almost misses the way Shae suddenly jumps to her feet defensively. Another interruption from the small peace she’s managed to find in this place, Sansa thinks to herself, and it is not her lord husband.

She doesn’t expect it to be Jaime Lannister either, stoic and handsome as ever –perhaps in spite of the injury he has sustained on his journey home.

Can he see her scars as plainly? Or has he come to see the great jape of the Stark with a Lannister name twice over?

If he wants to see her broken,  _ humiliated _ , she resolves herself to not give it to him. She turns on the bench gracefully, fractionally, and juts her chin out stubbornly as she straightens her back and steels her nerves.

“My lady is  _ resting _ ,” Shae bites out before she can so much as speak, and she feels a rush of gratitude for the woman, perhaps one of her only friends, before she regards the knight with a cool politeness.

For a moment, she gives way to the desire to say nothing, to let the awkwardness build and not give the Lannister any mercy or out. But he is the Queen’s brother, the Lannister name gifted to her has not done her any favors, and there’s something about the sight of his own suffering that pulls at her chest so painfully that she finally offers him something.

“I am glad to see you well, Ser Jaime.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

Jaime has always hated his Mark. 

It is boring and plain and  _ wrong _ , and he knows it is so because here he is, nearing two-score namedays and not a day has gone by that he hasn’t yearned for his sister’s presence, her touch, her voice,  _ anything at all,  _ even when she was beneath him in some forgotten corner of the Red Keep. He’s killed for her, slayed his own kin for her, cut down kings and boys alike for her, anything to return to her side. It’s never been enough, and he knows it never  _ will _ be, because of his gods be damned Mark. 

Common understanding is that a Mark is the name of a soulmate, but he knows that’s not true because his don’t match. There are theories that Marks are the will of the gods, but there are no gods so he doesn’t believe that either. Then there are the ones who say the Marks are who you want the most, the ones that you yearn for with your  _ soul _ , not not just your body or heart. But that’s not right, either.

No part of Jaime wants  _ Alayne.  _

Cersei’s never forgiven him for his Mark.  _ You betrayed me once, or you will soon. We both know it. Why should I trust you? Why should I  _ touch  _ you? _ He’s never had a good answer for her, other than to devote himself to her as earnestly as he could, to prove his loyalty. She hates Alayne, but not as much as he does. 

She’s never allowed him to see hers, but he knows it says  _ Rhaegar.  _ They don’t talk about it. 

The Marks are meaningless. They serve no purpose. They don’t feed the poor nor work the fields nor raise the sun in the East. They win no wars, only start them. 

He plans to tell all of this to Sansa Stark, to explain that it doesn’t matter what name she wears. What’s more is that it shouldn’t matter that  _ his _ name doesn’t match. The Marks have no power over the two of them so she shouldn’t lose sleep over it. There’s nothing he can do for her, only, that’s not quite true either. 

He’s not sure what exactly it is he can do for her, but he does owe her something. Catelyn Stark sacrificed herself and her son, not to mention her son’s kingdom, all for the chance that he could deliver Sansa Stark back to her side. He can’t do that now, and can’t deliver her home either, but he vowed to do  _ something _ . And that vow is far more compelling to him than  _ Alayne.  _

Still, it feels strange knowing she has his name. He’d expected to find her crying prettily into a red and gold handkerchief, sobbing at her misfortune at being so accursed as to be mismatched. He only realizes how ridiculous a notion that is when he finally finds her, looking out at the bay pensively. Her face is dry and her eyes don’t spark with hope or despair when they look at him. She looks at him like she’s looking through him for someone else, and he finds his stomach squirms under the sensation. 

Neither of them say anything to the handmaiden, but then again, neither of them says anything at all, and that squirming feeling only seems to grow the longer the moment stretches out. Why had he envisioned some inconsolable maiden from a song? And over  _ him?  _ She stands straighter than even her mother had, the impassive expression far more cutting than the disdain that had been on Catelyn Stark’s face, and everything this girl has lost crashes into him. 

Jaime does not care about Alayne, and Sansa Stark certainly does not care about Jaime. 

Any speech he might have thought to give evaporates and he shifts his weight, set completely off-balance by this impenetrable girl. 

When she finally talks, it takes everything in him not to let loose a horribly inappropriate bark of laughter. He holds up his wrist, and even now, it strikes him as some kind of foul trick of mirrors and light, the nothingness where his hand should be. “For a given definition of ‘well’.” 

The silence stretches out a moment longer and he can’t think of anything appropriate to say, no meaningless smalltalk to fill the gap stretching further between them, and so he just blurts out—

“It’s not your name. I’m sorry.”

**_s a n s a:_ **

Shae gives her an incredulous look, and Sansa can’t do anything more than give a slight tip of her chin in assurance. There’s a slight fear there- it doesn’t matter how fiercely loyal the handmaiden is in private, but to display it in front of a member of the Kingsguard, to display that in front of Jaime Lannister, the twin brother of the Queen—perhaps more—is enough to put her in danger. It could be enough to ensure that she will be removed from her care and selfishly she doesn’t want to lose her friend. There’s a moment where their eyes remained locked and Sansa can only wait for Shae to understand, and to take a few steps back to at least give the appearance that Ser Jaime has the privacy to say whatever it is that he has searched her out in order to say.

The sooner it is done with, the better. She doesn’t want to see any pity looming in his features, especially not over the fact that her Mark is his name. He owes her nothing in regard to it, she’d much prefer for the Lannister to leave her alone and to not discuss it at all, but she assumes that there is no way around it.

But why?

He owes her no such explanation, and the only Lannister to ever show her any sort of courtesy with regard to the happenings in her own life has been Lord Tyrion. Perhaps it’s another one of the Queen’s games. Joffrey has his favorites to send when he wants something, though perhaps his Uncle had only escaped such tasks due to his imprisonment. It seems completely within the King’s nature to send the very man who owns the name to be the latest weapon in his arsenal.

Best to just get on with it, then. It’ll be quicker that way.

Her eyes are drawn to the state of the knight, his  _ health _ . He looks thinner than most of the Kingsguard, but other than that and the state of his right hand he does look well. The question burns on the tip of her tongue, on how Robb had treated him—whether or not his injury had taken place within the camp of the King in the North or not, and she knows, she just knows it could not—but Sansa clenches her teeth to keep the words from ever spilling out.

And what is his definition of well? She’s not dim enough to miss the fact that a knight might not find himself well while lacking his sword hand, but he is alive. He is home, and free. He is back with his family, not married into the very House that is responsible for most if not all of the harm that has come to her own.

She doesn’t say this either, but instead offers; “I shall pray for you, Ser.”

As she prays for the King, the Queen, and most everyone else in the Red Keep.

The silence picks up again and for a short moment Sansa allows herself the hope that this will be the end of it. That he has gotten enough of the jape that the Mark has made of both of them, and he will leave her to what little peace she can find in King’s Landing. Tully blue eyes flicker back to the bay, and she doesn’t allow herself to wish for the chance that he is here to sneak her away onto a ship, to send her anywhere but here, and before she can get too immersed in her daydream she forces her gaze back to the still present knight.

_ “It’s not your name. I’m sorry.” _

She doesn’t know which part makes her want to laugh more. The fact that he says it as if there was ever a chance that his Mark was her name, or the fact that he’s somehow sorry about it. Sansa swallows her laughter and takes a slow breath to organize her thoughts to make sure that she is composed enough to sing the song that’s expected of her. The answer that can be reported back to Joffrey or Cersei, without fear of retribution.

“I am a traitor’s daughter, Ser Jaime. I am lucky for the match that the King has made for me.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

Jaime can’t recall ever feeling quite this sort of uncomfortable before. He’s been plenty uncomfortable in his life. Aerys made him routinely want to kill something and then vomit the contents of his stomach. Watching Cersei get married, interestingly, had the same effect. He’s stood by while his father and sister berated Tyrion for no good reason he could find. He’s watched knights betray their vows and prove that there’s very few oathkeepers actually out there, despite his own notoriety. There’s so many different kinds of discomfort, but standing here with Sansa Stark, knowing what he knows—that he started this war with her family, that her brother would’ve won this war against anyone but his father, that she has his  _ name— _ is uniquely nerve wracking. For all that she can’t be more than five-and-ten. 

There’s a familiar bitterness in her gaze—once more calling forth her mother, if the resemblance wasn’t uncanny enough already—though it is less violent than her mother’s. The thought almost amuses him. All Cersei need do is give her time. Any aura of childhood naiveté is long gone. None of the girly giggles she had shared with Myrcella, or the poorly disguised hero worship he had only glancingly took note of on their journey from Winterfell. 

She says she’ll pray from him and he has to bite back an instinctive  _ no thanks.  _ Cersei calls her stupid, with nothing in her head, but he can tell with a single look that’s not true. His own eyebrows furrow and he looks between the two women with the same tug in his gut that alerts him to incoming danger on a battlefield. These women are  _ dangerous.  _

For all his own clear discomfort, Sansa shows no such signs, simply sitting before him with her hand genteelly tucked in her lap. He shifts his weight and watches the slightest uptick in her eyebrows as he speaks—disbelief? Anger? Humor?—before her expressions slides back to neutral. 

_ I am a traitor’s daughter, Ser Jaime. I am lucky for the match that the King has made for me. _

The words are obviously rote, but they evoke such strange responses in him. His name has never meant anything to him, and his obviously doesn’t to her, and yet, he feels disappointed, and disgusted with himself for it. It’s such a childish fantasy, to meet your Marked match and fall into one another’s arms. He’s  _ known _ it to be idiotic since he was a child himself, but then, he’s always been something of an idiot. He doesn’t want this girl, but he can admit he’d assumed she’d want him, and feels foolish for it now. 

Foolish and angry, disappointed and disgusted, but mostly just  _ unsettled,  _ Jaime takes a step back and nods. “Tyrion is a good man. He’ll treat you kindly.” And that’s another discussion he must have. A lifetime of living in Jaime’s shadow, and now he marries the girl wearing Jaime’s name. No doubt his brother is curled up at the bottom of a bottle somewhere. He bows and walks away, fist curling up at his left side the moment he’s out of sight. 

He’s not mad at her, at least, he doesn’t  _ think _ he is, but he nevertheless has a squirming nausea in his stomach, and a scowl curling his lip. 

_ Fucking Marks.  _


	2. ii. a bond between souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you’re referring to my Mark, Ramsay Bolton cut it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a significant time jump in this chapter, as you will no doubt realize. 
> 
> PLEASE NOTE, this chapter alludes to mutilation and torture and other of Ramsey Bolton’s favorite pastimes. Read with caution.

**_s a n s a:_ **

It would be a lie to say that she’s never thought of the knight since fleeing King’s Landing, but there’s a numbing sort of shock in the cold North as she hears the whispers of Jaime Lannister’s name, his arrival in Winter Town and what she can only assume will be the gates of her ancestral home shortly. It’s the short of news that sends shockwaves through the soldiers already here, already willing to fight an enemy who is already dead, but by all accounts, Ser Jaime Lannister has arrived North _alone._

That part isn’t so terribly surprising. Sansa never expected Cersei Lannister to actually send troops north. Why when it’s a safe play to wait and see if her enemy survives, and then fight the leftovers of either side when it’s all said and done.

Her fingers flex instinctively, and Sansa fights the urge to reach back and push through the layers of her clothes to find the skin that still bears his name, to drag the pad of her pointer finger against the scarred skin, and to take comfort in it as she has ever since Littlefinger had brought her, _sold her_ , home.

Her relationship with the knight himself might not be any different from the last time she saw him, the last time they spoke. She had written off his words then, much like everything else he had said in an attempt to...Well, she’s never been really sure why he had felt the need to find her that day, to tell her that his own mark was not her own name. But he had been right about Tyrion, who had been nothing but kind during their brief marriage, who had easily become the best of her husbands by far. Even now, despite his role as Hand of the Dragon Queen, that kindness has not left him and she feels a pang of _something_ for what he must be feeling, what he must be trying to do to ensure that his brother has not just forfeited his life by merely riding North.

She feels no such fear, but there’s no denying the swoop in her stomach and the urge once again to find his name etched in her skin. The corners of her mouth tug into the start of a small smile as her footsteps echo across the battlements and she makes her way towards where she knows the Dragon Queen will be holding her version of a trial.

Jaime Lannister’s name has always brought about curious responses, especially when those who looked, gawked or asked didn’t get a reaction in turn. Baelish had stared when he had seen, and the look of determination in his face had given Sansa the impression that he was somehow willing it to change, perhaps to his own name. She never told him that she made the choice, that she willed for Jaime Lannister’s name back every time, but there’s no reason to doubt that he hadn’t understood that all on his own.

Arya didn’t ask or expect anything, but occasionally Sansa can see the small look of concern her little sister does when she thinks no one is looking. And she hasn’t been able to tell Jon. The anger at Ramsay Bolton’s letter before they took back their home...

The bastard is dead and gone, erased as she had promised, and there’s no need to let ghosts haunt them even more than they already do.

The name on her skin is no such secret, it hasn’t been a secret ever since Joffrey had found out and put it on full display for the Court of King’s Landing, but Sansa doesn’t think the name ever enraged anyone as much as it had enraged Ramsay. It was another blemish, another reminder that no matter what he did, his claim on Winterfell was weak. A bastard legitimized by another bastard, any threat to his succession murdered and long gone, and yet a quiet loyalty to the Stark name could not be diminished.

Even the Stark wife he had bought and kept prisoner bore another name. Not that it hurt her former husband’s tender heart, but it bothered him. Enraged him, and as determined as he was to cut the name out of her skin, to discard the reminder of any challenge to his claim, her own determination to not submit, to not cower, to _rebel_ , had been stronger.

And so, every night her husband took to his blade, Jaime Lannister’s name would return by morning clear as could be underneath the healing skin.

Her sister falls into step with her just shy of the great hall and gives her hand a small squeeze. No words pass between the sisters, but Sansa takes in a small breath before she pushes open the heavy door and enters the already packed room.

They’re waiting for her, she realizes as she moves to sit in the seat to the Dragon Queen’s right, Jon already on her left. Brienne is trying to catch her gaze, and she can’t look at Tyrion for fear she will let on more than she intends to, to let everyone know she is still playing the great game, especially with Daenerys Targaryen sitting so close at her family’s high table.

She speaks up in agreement with the Dragon Queen at first, Tully blue eyes not leaving the figure of the man whose name has become such a private symbol to her. She owes it to the Northern Lords to be honest, and the North has no reason to trust the knight, no reason to take his words as true. He’s as much as admitted it himself, with his talk of war and doing every all over again. Pride, she thinks as her head tilts up stubbornly.

Though perhaps he does not know that the war between their families was predetermined before he ever found Ned Stark in the streets.

Baelish had been nothing but thorough.

Brienne though, Brienne provides the perfect opportunity to give her cause to let Ser Jaime stay in a way that won’t rankle the North. The only one who could possibly disagree is Queen Daenerys, and she cannot afford to offend them any more than she already has-

He had indirectly fulfilled an oath to Lady Catelyn Stark, her mother, and even as she blinks back tears she knows that _means_ something. Not only to her, but anyone loyal to House Stark.

“I trust you with my life. If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay.”

“Perhaps we should leave it to someone less biased to decide,” Dany drawls cooly beside her, and Sansa’s eye flash. She does not turn towards the silver haired queen, and has to bite back some of her remarks.

Surely Daenerys is just as biased about Jaime Lannister as she is, if not more.

“Your grace. You have heard of the crimes against my family, my house, and Ser Jaime’s admittance that he would do it again out of loyalty. The man responsible for this has already been convicted, and we should not turn away allies when this is about _survival_ ,” she echoes the defendant’s words matter of fact-ly, and only then turns to Daenerys. “And if you’re referring to my Mark, Ramsay Bolton cut it out.”

There’s no denying the small ripple that starts around the room. It is an unfathomable crime—let alone sacrilege to those who believe the Marks are the work of the Gods—and it’s the loudest kind of silence as Sansa waits for the Queen’s response.

“And what does the Warden of the North say about it?” 

“We need every man we can get.”

“Very well.”

The moment the Ser Jaime’s weapon is returned to him, and the Queen stands, Sansa rises and walks from the room unwilling to wait for anyone to find her, to talk about the news she has so bluntly dropped into everyone’s laps. She has given the knight the opportunity to keep his word and nothing more.

It doesn’t feel like that though, and she wonders who will find the other first this time.

 _Jaime Lannister_ , she thinks with a private laugh, her fingers finally brushing across the part of her dress which covers his name. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Coming North is not about Sansa Stark. 

He meant what he said to his sister. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. 

_You made a vow to Catelyn Stark once, too._ Retracing his steps North to Winterfell is an exercise in self-immolation, remembering the careless way that King Robert’s court traveled across his kingdoms, no concern for the small folk that would be dying within the year, the grain they ate carelessly with no thought for the coming wars or the coming Winter. He passes Harrenhal and remembers losing his hand, remembers losing his future in exchange for a white cloak. He passes the turn off to the River Road, that leads to the Whispering Wood, and ends at Casterly Rock. Hell, even the Twins lies to the West. He passes league after league of ghosts and broken oaths and he’s not even crossed into the North yet. 

It’s not about Sansa Stark, and yet every ghost he passes seems to call his thoughts back to her. Even Harrenhal makes him think of her Aunt Lyanna, and Elia Martell, the woman he should’ve protected when he was killing Aerys instead. A woman whose fate was so similar to Sansa’s own in so many ways during those days at the Red Keep, that he marvels that he didn’t notice it sooner. 

Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have let her slip away. 

Who is he kidding. He never could’ve trapped her there. 

But it had only been when she’d disappeared that he began to wish he tried harder when she’d been there. They’d only spoken the once, and it had been excruciatingly awkward, not to mention a subtle lesson in humility, though he doubts that’s what she was going for. He’s thought about that conversation hundreds of times, the incredulous look she wore when he apologized for not having her name, no doubt wondering why he’d ever think she’d want him to. 

But he _is_ sorry he doesn’t have her name. And at this point, it’s almost comical that he doesn’t. She’s hovered at the edges of his mind for years now, wondering why she wears his name on her skin, where she disappeared to, if she’s alright, if Brienne found her. 

He has spent an inordinate amount of time hoping Brienne found her, actually. She’d been his last chance for honor, and he’d passed it over. There hadn’t seemed to be much point in trying; once again, to fight for his honor would be to forsake his vow to his king, his duties to his family. But he’d done what he could to ensure Brienne could fulfill their vow, and he’d hoped it was enough. 

When they’d gotten word that Bolton had her, that Bolton had _married_ her, he’d actually gone and sat in the sept. And then he’d left the sept and found the Godswood. He didn’t pray for her, and he didn’t weep for her, but he’d held his stump and he _hoped._ The Bolton bastard hadn’t been in the group of men that had taken his hand, but they’d had plenty to say about him, and there was a reason his father had chosen Roose Bolton for his part in the Red Wedding. He hoped whatever gods still listened kept his blades away from her, hoped that Brienne wouldn’t give up just because of something as banal as wedding vows. 

He thought about how their lives might’ve been different had he gone with Brienne, thought about what he might’ve done had he been there whenever Bolton had finally gotten his hands on her. He wondered why she wore his name. 

And of course, his never changed. He’d even wished, abstractly, that whoever Alayne was, wherever she was, she was doing fine. He couldn’t give her anything more than that. He’d given it already. Another reason why he can’t understand why his name isn’t _Sansa._

Arriving in Winterfell this time around had been markedly different. For a twice-sacked city, it’s surprisingly bustling, but he can see the scars. Fresh wooden beams, newly thatched roofs, blackened walls, and _miles_ of encampments. Most were military, flying Targaryen banners, but there were others, more ramshackle and haphazardly placed, which belonged to smallfolk, no doubt refugees fleeing South from the threat of dead men. But there were also what he imagines must be...wildlings? 

The threat is real here in the North, and you can feel it in the air. For all the people gathered here, there’s no raucous tavern crowds, no angry brawling, no cheers for the soldiers. He remembers how Robb Stark fought, remembers the difference in their armies, the down-and-dirty methods matching the no-fuss armor. The North fought wars because they had no choice. When Ned Stark had looked at his armor, he hadn’t seen any of the brilliance, none of the ornate metalwork or military accolades displayed there. Just the lack of scratches. 

It’s like that here. But for the touches brought, he is sure, by the Dragon Queen, there is no pretense in Winterfell. They cannot hide from this battle the way Cersei is. He feels a kinship with the notion. Jaime Lannister has lost his pretense, too. He’s not the golden Lion of Lannister any longer. 

Of course, that won’t matter to Daenerys Targaryen. 

He looks up, and meets Bran Stark’s eyes, and he is sure that it won’t matter to anyone. Jaime Lannister didn’t come North for Sansa Stark, he didn’t come North for Tyrion, he didn’t come North to beg forgiveness from them nor Daenerys Targaryen, nor Bran Stark. 

He knows he will not get it. 

He had expected the trial, but he had not expected Sansa Stark. 

She is stoic, and cold, and she gives nothing away as she looks upon the man whose name she bears. He hadn’t expected how much it would hurt to hear her list his crimes against her family and he is _angry._ She didn’t want his name, she didn’t want _him_ then or now, he doesn’t _owe_ her anything and he _is not sorry._

He tells her so, and he feels the smallest flicker of satisfaction to know he’s surprised her and then— 

“The things we do for love.”

He has no response to that. 

Brienne stands up to speak for him and he can’t bring himself to stop her, though he suddenly doesn’t want them knowing any of this. He doesn’t want Sansa to know that he _tried,_ he doesn’t want to see what that means, or doesn’t mean to her. He doesn’t look up as she falls silent, looks down at her lap. He doesn’t look until he can’t stand it anymore, and then the goddamn Dragon Queen opens her mouth again and Sansa speaks again and—

Jaime can’t breathe. 

His name, Ramsay Bolton cut out his _name._ He stares at Sansa, unable to conceal his horror, but then, it hardly matters because he knows no one else can conceal theirs either, not even the Dragon Queen, though he is sure she tries. But Jaime doesn’t look away from Sansa, _needs_ her to look at him, and then she’s gone, and maybe he is safe for the moment, but his name on her skin—

It’s gone. 

He stands there adrift as the room disperses, watching where Sansa had disappeared until Brienne catches his eye, and then Bran. 

Later, he goes to the Godswood, unsure as he was when he’d gone in King’s Landing, the day he’d learned of her marriage to Ramsay. They hadn’t answered him, when he’d hoped for Ramsay’s blades to stay away from her skin. Had he already cut it out by then? 

Is she happy it’s gone? 

Even his own mark he’s never been able to touch like that, no matter how much he despised it in his youth, no matter how often he wished it was Cersei instead. Even now, when he can’t understand why it’s not Sansa, he still could never bring himself to cut it out, no more than he could bring himself to cut off his remaining hand. 

The Marks aren’t meaningless. He doesn’t believe they add up to soulmates—how can he?—but they’re not _meaningless._ Otherwise people would cut them out all the time. 

He doesn’t know what his name meant to Sansa, if it meant anything at all, but still, the horror he feels for her… he doesn’t have words. 

_He should’ve been there._

It’s a stupid thought. He doubts she wanted him there any more than she had wanted Ramsay, but he has it nonetheless. He states at the crying face in the tree in front of him, and thinks _yes, you are cruel, aren’t you?_

He turns to leave, and she’s there. Of course she is. He remembers acutely the excruciating conversation they had in King’s Landing, and the same tension thrums in the air between them. Once more, the only thing he has to say to her is—

“Lady Stark… I’m sorry.” 

**_s a n s a:_ **

She doesn’t look for him right away.

There is too much to do in the aftermath of the trial, too many meetings and discussions, and Jon finds her first, the horror in his expression, the anger towards a dead man too great to be pushed to the side. They are a family, and Sansa knows they’re not meant to keep secrets from each other, not anymore, but she had seen no real reason to tell him this. Even now, she keeps the fact that she hadn’t been entirely truthful with the Dragon Queen to herself. There are two who know the truth, that Jaime’s name is still very much embedded in her skin, in her soul if the legends are to be believed, but he is in love with the most dangerous woman in Westeros.

Plausible deniability will be his shield should this turn into something more. 

As soon as she can, Sansa finds solitude, not ready to patiently wait through any comments that any of their people feel the need to express before they can get down to business. What had been done cannot be undone. She cannot take back her marriage to Ramsay Bolton, nor can she erase what he had done, and continued to do again and again. But he is dead, and so is the man responsible for putting her within his reach in the first place. And that is enough.

Selfishly, she hopes Ser Jaime will have the same burst of tactless honesty, as he had so long ago back in King’s Landing. It will save her the effort of trying to figure out what to say to the Lannister knight who had armed Brienne, who had done what he could to get her back home to fulfill an oath to her mother, despite the very loyalty he had spoken of so pointedly in his trial.

Only a Lannister, she thinks, would be so bold to speak so plainly with their enemies staring them down with every ability to cut their life short.

She doesn’t understand him, she doesn’t understand the way he picks and chooses his battles, and the logic he uses to justify them.

She doesn’t _know_ him, no matter how long his name has been her Mark, no matter what sort of meaning his name has taken on for her, how much hope he’s given her without ever being near.

It’s these thoughts that plague her mind as she walks through the walls of Winterfell, walking as though she has no purpose in mind other than checking on the smallfolk, on making sure there is adequate food and supplies to keep them warm while they eat. All of this is true, but it serves a dual purpose, and she tries to find Jaime Lannister, looks to see if he’s hiding amongst them now that judgment has passed and his life is his own to forfeit as he pleases while up North.

He is not with his brother, nor Brienne, and she cannot think of anyone else that he would want to reunite with in Winterfell of all places.

So where is he hiding?

The snow collapses underneath her feet as she makes her way to the Godswood, murmured by Bran for her ears only after she had returned from some of the camps. Sansa’s not sure if she will ever get used to what her brother has become, who he is now, or how all of it works, but she nods and allows herself a moment to press a kiss to the top of his head before she sets off.

But Bran is right, as he has been since his own return home, and it appears as if she’s surprised Ser Jaime as much as he’s managed to surprise her.

Her lips tug into a small amused smile.

“You have a habit, Ser Jaime, of apologizing for what you cannot control and _not_ apologizing for what you can.”

She doesn’t mean to rehash that argument, and that’s not why Sansa’s searched for him.

In fact, she’s not really sure why she’s searched for him, what there is left to say—if there’s ever been anything to say between the pair of them—and after a moment of silence Sansa decides to give him the same blunt sort of honesty he had given her all those years ago.

“It’s still there,” the quiet admission comes. The information belongs to no one but her, certainly not the Court that the Dragon Queen had held in her own home, but if it was anyone’s business but her own, she supposes it would be his.

“I thought you should know.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

The anger he felt in the great hall tries to rally once more, but he’s tired of defending himself to people who don’t want to listen to him, and more than that… he doesn’t want to fight her. Her words still ring in his ears, and it’s hard to concentrate on anything but the fact that Ramsay had _taken her name._ Still, the deeply buried urge to retain his honor rears its head and he can’t stop himself from speaking. 

“Most of the things I can control I’m not sorry about.” Only most, though. He’s sorry about Elia and her babes. 

He’s sorry about Bran. He’s sorry about Ramsay. But he doesn’t say that. He never says that. 

She’s different now. More like her mother than she was in King’s Landing, but more like her father, too. Where Catelyn Stark’s anger was a rip current sweeping their entire nation to war, Ned Stark’s had always been ice: silent and deceptively dangerous. There’s something all her own, though, too. An ability to stop and consider all the angles, an ability to change her mind, something neither of her parents had ever been capable of. 

He can already tell Daenerys feels threatened by her, and he’s beginning to think she _should._ The North Remembers, or so every Stark he’s ever met has told him, and he’s willing to bet he knows who they’ll choose when it comes to it. 

The silence stretches out, and when she finally speaks again, he once more finds himself struck speechless. 

“How…” _Why._

That’s the true question. _Why do you have my name?_ But he has other’s, too, questions he has no business asking. _What did he do to you? Are you alright? What do I do to make it better?_ It’s his name, but not his business, and he won’t fool himself into thinking this is something it’s not. 

But then again, she didn’t need to tell him at all, yet she has. He wants to ask her why, ask her what she wants from him, but he can’t find a way of making it seem not like a demand, but an offer. 

He scrubs his only hand through his hair with a sigh, and looks back at the tree. _Fucking Marks._

“I went to the Godswood when I learned that Ramsay had you,” he admits quietly, looking at his stump. He laughs a little, and in his ears it sounds like the sound he made when they cut off his hand. “I asked them to keep his blades away from you.”

**_s a n s a:_ **

What are you sorry for, she wants to ask him. But then she’s not sure she wants to know. Nor does she think that it truly matters. There is too much coming for them all, for all of humanity, and as far as Sansa is concerned, there is only one Lannister left who must pay for her crimes. It does not matter if she isn’t the one to pass judgment, she’s not particular picky how Cersei Lannister meets her fate. The only requirement is that she does, and should the Dragon Queen help them win against the army of the dead, she can only hope that Cersei Lannister is not underestimated and is ultimately captured.

And then executed. It’s one trip South Sansa is happy to make.

She says none of this though, her mind molded and learned enough now to understand the truth behind the rumors that had cost her father his head. The truth about Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. Jaime’s more than prominent role. No, she owes Jaime Lannister nothing, and she can still hear Lord Baelish’s thoughts, lessons, _warnings._ She knows what he would do, how he would plot to use any of this, all of this to his advantage, and yet Sansa finds she doesn’t want to.

The knight had offered her nothing but the truth when he had learned about how she bore his name. He had not tried to use it to his own advantage, to his family’s advantage, despite the very fact that his father, sister, and nephew-son had on multiple occasions.

What does this mean for them?

Nothing, she thinks. Nothing has changed. He has ridden North to fulfill another vow, before he will most likely either die with the rest of them, or ride back South to his sister. Provided the Dragon Queen doesn’t kill him for treason for all of his efforts.

“How?” She echoes, and suddenly feels so vulnerable that the cold air of her home, of the North feels like it’s finally getting to her. Will anyone ever know how these marks work? Truly understand despite all of the different and contradicting stories and folk tales that surround them?

“I don’t know.” It’s a true answer. She doesn’t know how, not really. She only knows of her desperation, of how her mind would go to him in those moments, of their one conversation, of what that name still being there would mean come the next morning. “Ramsay wanted it gone, he wanted a great many things I suppose, and I didn’t want to give anything more than I already had. I wanted a choice. And by morning it always came back.”

It’s the simplest, watered down way to explain it, but Sansa doesn’t feel any need to elaborate any further. Her desperation, her fight to live, and everything that his name, that damned mark now means to her is _hers_. And she sees no reason to share it with him.

It’s another irony, she supposes, on two counts. When she told him she would pray for him, she had meant that she would pray for his failure, much as she had for Joffrey. For him to pray for her, to pray specifically for Ramsay Bolton to keep his blades away from her when her every decision did nothing but instigate that very out come...

Sansa blows out a shaky breath and takes a seat on one of the branches so her knees have no chance to give out from underneath her.

Once that might have been what she believed fueled the Marks, but she doesn’t think so anymore. Tully blue eyes follow the gaze of Lannister green, and she remembers Ramsay’s taunts just before the steel would brush against her skin. How not even the famed Knight could escape the Bolton blade.

“Brienne found me and brought me to Jon. That is in no small part thanks to you.”

She can’t bring her gaze away from his wrist, and she’s momentarily assaulted by the memory of how she had once thought of Jaime before sentencing Ramsay to his fate, of how she had wished he had been there – for vengeance of his own.

“Ramsay is dead, the Boltons are erased, and we are still here, Ser. That is the end of it.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

Learning that his name had been carved from her skin had been one of the most unsettling moments of his life. Learning now that he _kept doing it…_ He can’t help the way the heel of his palm finds his own mark and rubs, as if to remind himself it’s still there. He doesn’t even know who his mark _is,_ but he can’t imagine the torture that must’ve been. 

_I wanted a choice._

He can’t imagine why it keeps on returning. His eyes flicker from where her mark must be back to her face, and once again thinks _how._ But it’s clear she doesn’t intend on sharing any more with him, maybe hadn’t intended on sharing anything with him at all. The questions just continue to swirl. 

Does that mean she chose him? 

The thrumming tension in the air seems to bend as she sits on a root, and he watches one layer of the impenetrable Lady of Winterfell fall. He’s sure there are plenty more beneath it, but still, it feels like an accomplishment. What is he even trying to accomplish?

But then she offers acknowledgement, and— For fuck’s sake. Every word she speaks seems like a punch to the gut. She doesn’t offer her gratitude, or her forgiveness, but acknowledgement… it’s more than he’s ever gotten from anyone but Brienne. She stares at his wrist, and he fights the urge to hide it in his cloak. She’s not disgusted, and more than that, she just announced the most horridly vulnerable kind of wound he can imagine to her entire court, and had sounded almost bored by it. She doesn’t require gentility from him. 

_That is the end of it._

“Is it?” He asks, before he can stop himself. It’s the end of the Boltons, sure. The only memory that remains will die with them, as it should be. But it doesn’t have to be the end of _everything_. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking about, or what he’s offering. He didn’t come North for Sansa Stark, but he came to the godswood for her. 

And here she is. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

When he had approached her that day in King’s Landing, Sansa had wanted nothing to do with him, the conversation, or anything he could possibly have to say. Part of it had been fear- she had already known that he did not bear her name in return from his sister, who had gotten a particularly sour look on her face when Sansa had so sweetly asked if she knew whose name he had- that he would find her to play the same game as his family. The rest had been indifference, and a longing to just be left alone. Tyrion had indulged her in that regard, only stepping in when he felt a desire to _help_.

Now, as she watches the Kingsguard – is he still, if he’s abandoned his post to come North? – Sansa finds she wants to know more. She wants to understand, but she doesn’t know where to start. It’s not her place to delve more into his mark – he has already shared that the name isn’t hers personally and anything beyond that is his business alone. She shares what she chooses to as a choice, and there’s no intention, no desire, to twist that to make him feel obligated to share on his own end.

But why does it seem as if he genuinely is affected by all of this? In a way that feels more than just a polite apology for not returning her name, for not being the other half of her soul, recognized by the Gods, of whom stories would be sung?

She hasn’t believed in songs or stories in a long time, and he’s not sorry about his actions in a war meant to defend his family.

So why is he affected? Why does he care?

“Isn’t it?” Sansa answers, her eyebrows furrowed in her confusion. The Boltons are dead, he has fulfilled the oath made to her mother, and now has the protection and the ability to keep the oath he had made to fight for the living. Her mark is still his name, while his own belongs to someone else. “What is left?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

What indeed? 

For a moment his mind drifts to his own name, and the woman it must belong to. Will she care that he’s not interested in her at all? Because apparently it matters a great deal to him what Sansa thinks of him, even though there’s no reason for it. They’ve been enemies for longer than she’s even worn his name, and though he likes to believe that she’s just set that aside, it’ll hardly endear him to her. And why should it? She has never owed him anything. If anything, it is _he_ that owes her a great deal. Possibly his life. 

But she doesn’t want anything from him, she’s made that clear. And in truth, there’s very little he can give her worth her while anymore. Even his life is of questionable value at this point. Everything else—from his body, to his mind, to his heart, to his soul—has been tarnished one way or another. Even if they hadn’t been on opposite sides of a war up until an hour ago, he can’t blame her for finding him wanting. 

Though when he’d even begun to think of that as an option, he’s not sure. 

“Nothing, my lady. If you’ll excuse me.” And he bows, and takes his leave. 


	3. iii. wrong-footed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it doesn’t stop her from searching him out in every room she enters, sitting near him when she can, even if it’s to quietly share a meal. Something about having him near settles something in her bones that she didn’t even know was unsettled. Is it because of the mark? Is that the bond that she’s supposed to feel, beside the hope that it had given her when she had been a prisoner in her own home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not sure if last chapter was announced, due to some technical difficulties, but make sure you catch chapter 2, or this will be very confusing xD

**_j a i m e:_ **

He doesn’t know where Arya Stark has been these past years, nor does he know what she is, other than pissing him off. Well, that and fucking brilliant with a sword. She’d disarmed him in a minute flat, and he’d only lasted that long because he hadn’t lost his mind when he’d lost his sword hand. He’d still been able to anticipate her—mostly—it was his reaction time and his control that had been lacking, as she keeps reminding him. 

“Dead.” She says again. This time her dagger rests an inch from his groin, and he grumbles about fighting fair, though he knows at this point it doesn’t matter. The dead don’t care about fair. 

“Again, with Brienne this time so I can watch.” He’s fairly certain Arya Stark hasn’t even seen her twentieth nameday, but he doesn’t begrudge the instruction. He’s eons better than he had been when Brienne left King’s Landing, and she’s told him so, but he’s eons away from where he’d been with his right hand, too. They start off, and Brienne doesn’t go easy on him, a fact he appreciates more than he can say. Bronn never had either, but he'd been hard-pressed to find a decent sparring partner aside from those two. It's nice to be sparring Brienne again. She's a wall of strength, and her movements are confident in a way they hadn't been before. It's a good session, and through it all, Arya Stark never shuts the fuck up. 

“You’re using too much energy. Big swings to compensate for less muscle mass. Make them tighter, and quicker. You may have less power in your strike, but you’ll have more time to make them.” 

“Hmm. Wonder if we can strap a shield on your right hand. Might as well useful it for something.” 

“ _ Dead.  _ You’re better than most men with your off-hand but you’re still too slow. You’re going to die when the dead—” She cuts off, and he looks over to see Lady Stark standing beside her. 

He stumbles, and Brienne is quick to take advantage, sweeping his sword out of his hand and getting hers to his throat. 

"I yield."

He flushes and her eyebrow raises, before he steps back and rights his armor. They both bow to Lady Stark, though he says nothing. No doubt she’s looking for Brienne. Just as well. He hasn’t got much pride left, but what little there is can use some time to recover after that blunder. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

Everywhere she looks, Sansa finds she’s looking for Jaime Lannister. It’s a strange sort of realization. She had meant it when she had said it was the end of it. Jaime Lannister owes her nothing, owes her mother nothing. She and her sister are back within the walls of Winterfell – for however long – and regardless of the time, or indirect way, he is partially responsible for it. She had also meant it when she had implied that he owed her nothing, despite the fact that his name is still very present on her body. She doesn’t want his pity, nor his false sense of obligation due to a mark he does not return.

And that’s that, isn’t it?

But it doesn’t stop her from searching him out in every room she enters, sitting near him when she can, even if it’s to quietly share a meal. Something about having him near settles something in her bones that she didn’t even know was  _ unsettled _ . Is it because of the mark? Is that the bond that she’s supposed to feel, beside the hope that it had given her when she had been a prisoner in her own home? It’s confusing, makes little to no sense, so she doesn’t offer any explanation when her siblings vaguely ask, or when Brienne shoots her a curious look. She takes the small comfort Ser Jaime unknowingly gives and then goes on about her business – making sure there’s enough boiled leather, food, weapons forged with dragon glass.

Is it enough? Will they have enough? And if it is, is anyone prepared for the next war?

She walks without a purpose, eyes always scanning for any sort of irregularity, and kind of break in the chain that could mean the difference between life or death.

There’s the unmistakable sound of swords clashing, and Sansa thinks she hears  _ Arya _ and so she turns towards the courtyard to investigate-

She shouldn’t be surprised, not anymore. Arya cuts off at her appearance, and Sansa shoots her sister an amused smile while raising one eyebrow before she turns towards Brienne and Ser Jaime. She takes a moment to study the scene, the pair- how Brienne readjusts her grip on her sword as Ser Jaime fixes his armor.

She also pointedly ignores the way her stomach flips at the thought of them – him – dying when the dead arrive.

Arya must understand on some level - but Sansa isn’t sure how when she doesn’t understand it herself.

“Please don’t stop on my account,” she finally smiles before she takes the seat next to her sister, soundly inviting herself to their training session. “I wanted to ask you a few questions, Ser Jaime, but none are so important to interrupt you three. I can wait.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

Jaime looks from Lady Stark to Brienne, to Arya—just in time to catch the latter rolling her eyes—uneasily. 

“My time is yours, Lady Stark,” he says formally, but she sits, so he picks up his sword and takes his stance. He tries to focus this time, to remember Arya’s critiques, and he succeeds to a certain extent, the tighter maneuvers  _ do  _ conserve energy, even if they feel oddly underpowered compared to what he’s used to. There’s no finesse though, and he can feel the blush on his cheeks like he’s one of Margaery Tyrell’s cooing cousins. 

Quick glances over in her direction reveal Arya murmuring in Lady Stark’s ear, though she never takes her eyes away from the match. What questions could she have for him? He’s told them the entirety of his knowledge relating to Cersei’s military plans, a betrayal in and of itself, what little he had known. The idea of being asked to sell out by  _ Sansa  _ of all people… well. He won’t rule out the possibility. He doesn’t mean anything to her, so there’s no reason to  _ not _ pump him for information. If it’s that, or his life, he can only hope the dead come before they force that choice on him. 

He hopes that’s not the case though. He’s got no reason to, but he  _ hopes.  _

“Yield,” Brienne says quietly, and for fuck’s sake, he hadn’t even noticed she had her sword at his throat. She looks at him with concern, then looks over to Sansa. “Jaime—”

“Don’t,” he murmurs, and steps back. “That’s enough for me today, I think. My lady?” 

**_S a n s a:_ **

It’s a strange realization that she  _ wants  _ to watch. She wants to watch the two friends, because she’s noticed there’s something beyond comradery between the pair who hold their swords, spar and join in some of the lighter moments that have begun to pop up around the keep as more and more travel to Winterfell to prepare for what very might well be the end of all things.

Though suddenly she thinks that her presence might be interrupting such a light moment in a negative way. Ser Jaime fumbles, and she does her best to make sure that it’s not readily obvious that she’s watching him, taking measure of his ability- how well he could do out there against an enemy that is already dead. And, why should she? He’s offered himself up to this fight, just as everybody else has. He must know what he’s doing, him and Brienne and –

Arya must take pity on her, must read something in her expression in the way only sisters can because the next thing she hears are reassurances.

That Brienne thinks Jaime has dramatically improved, and that even Arya has noticed in just their training this morning that he improves, he listens and takes criticism in a way to be used to improve, instead of ignoring them as a matter of pride.

Sansa nods and gives Arya a small smile, but nothing more. There’s too many eyes in the courtyard to talk about it any further, and quite frankly she isn’t sure she wants to.

Only the training is over much sooner than she had anticipated, and Sansa wonders if that’s also her fault. Perhaps it’s the obligation again, and by mentioning that she had wanted to speak with him, ask some questions 

of him, said obligation will not let it wait. She hopes not, she hopes that he knows to take her at her word, and that she won’t say something unless she means it.

Another laughable thought. He doesn’t know her, and she doesn’t know him.

So why is she most comfortable when he’s in the damned room?

“Only if you’re sure, Ser Jaime,” is her response, but Sansa stands and makes her way towards him anyway. She doesn’t offer him her arm, it isn’t proper after all, but instead tilts her head in a direction to lead them on a walk.

She doesn’t ask anything right away, just finds that silent comfort that his presence offers and takes a moment to enjoy it. She can see her breath in the air, the colder it gets as Bran assures them that the Night King’s army marches closer and closer each day.

“I want to ask you a favor,” is what she says when she finally turns her head to catch his eyes. “I don’t want you to feel obligated, but I would appreciate your input if you’re willing to give it.” She’s being purposefully vague in an attempt to buy her mind a little bit more time to settle before she botches the pitch.

“I don’t have the most experience when it comes to the military, or battle strategies.” She knows her role in the Battle of the Bastards, knows that it is what helped determine their victory, but she’s not fool enough to believe that she knows more than the generals in that room – or that they’re considering every possible angle. “But I’d like to understand the consequences of the decisions that are being made in small council discussions. And so I was wondering, hoping, that you would be willing to accompany me.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He looks to Brienne once more before following, noting that Brienne herself stays three paces back. They walk through the castle and Jaime notes the way that people pause in their work to greet Lady Stark, to pass her well wishes, and that he smiles and nods at them all in turn. She says nothing though, and the ever present squirming tries to take hold in his gut before she speaks. 

He wonders if he’ll ever understand her at all, if he’ll ever be able to predict the twists and turns of her mind. After their last conversation, he would never have thought she’d be coming to him to ask a  _ favor,  _ and yet she does so, and does so apparently without censure or doubt. His mind travels to Cersei, and the games she’d play with the powerful men who thought they made the decisions in King’s Landing. What does Sansa Stark stand to gain from  _ him?  _ He won’t be a lever to be used—

Oh. 

“You want me to sit in on small council meetings?” He asks, bewildered. “I’m not sure the Dragon Queen would allow that,” he says hesitantly, as he tries to think of any way this could be a ploy. He doesn’t see how it could be. Anyone Lady Stark could be working against will be in the room, except his sister, and he doubts Lady Stark would trust him to work against Cersei in any situation. 

He thinks about it at face value though, and he can see her point. The past decade has been hell on Westeros’ wealth of military leaders. He supposes he can’t speak for Daenerys’ commanders, but at the very least, the fact that they’ve never fought their enemy before, nor have they ever fought in  _ Westeros,  _ let alone the North, is a point against their favor. Jon Snow, at least, seems dedicated to the task, and he  _ did  _ win back Winterfell from the Boltons, though… 

His eyes cut to Lady Stark. The Knights of the Vale haven’t escaped his notice. Neither has the absence of their Lord Paramount. He knows they fought in that battle as well. How they knew to be here and when, though, is another story. 

“It would be an honor, my lady.” Logically, he knows that his experience on the battlefield, even being what it is, is nothing to be taken for granted, but he wonders if there’s anything else to it.  _ I was wondering,  _ hoping,  _ you would be willing to accompany me.  _ He sighs internally, before ruthlessly stamping out that train of thought. He’s an asset for the sake of his experience, and reading anything more into it would be folly. 

_ It’s still there. I thought you should know.  _

**_S a n s a:_ **

As they walk she’s sure they attract more attention than not. It’s an interesting trio to make their way through the keep, herself, the former or not so former Commander of the Kingsguard, or Queensguard – Sansa’s not too certain – and Brienne. The people of the North seem to pay Jaime Lannister only second looks every once in a while, and though Sansa notes that it’s less and less the more she catches them and looks back. He has stood before his judgement, and he is here to fight just as the rest of them are. Beyond that, there is nothing left to really pick at.

The history between their families will mean little if everyone is dead within the fortnight.

“I do.” Truly, it can’t be all that surprising. He has more experience in warfare than just about everyone at that bloody table, and Sansa can’t imagine why Tyrion hasn’t suggested his brother’s expertise himself. Likely it is because of the Dragon Queen’s accusation at the trial when Tyrion had stepped up to speak on his brother’s behalf for the first time, and there are still some sore wounds that need mending before he can even so much as try again.

A useful mood for a Queen to have, Sansa thinks scathingly to herself. How is she supposed to respect a Queen, a foreign Queen who knows nothing of what the North has lost, nothing of what the North has  _ fought to take back and keep _ , and a Queen who will not listen. Not even to her closest advisors.

No, she is not predetermined to not like her, as her former husband would point out. Sansa doesn’t trust her, and that is where the line of distinction is drawn.

She does not roll her eyes much like she wants to at Ser Jaime’s mention of the very silver haired queen, but there’s no disguising the distaste from her voice as she allows herself to interject on the one occasion. “I will handle any complaint Queen Daenerys has.” This is still Winterfell, and she is still it’s Lady. She will continue to behave as so for as long as she is breathing, Dragon Queen in her home’s residence or not.

There’s more she could say, more she wants to interject with in order to convince him to say yes – and while most of her reasoning stands behind logic, she cannot deny that a not so small portion wants to feel that comfort while dealing with the Targaryen in such...close proximity.

Their last meeting after Ser Jaime’s trial had ...not gone very well.

He answers and Sansa blows out a breath of air she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. “I’m grateful, Ser Jaime. Thank you.”

Another pause, and the desire to not lose the peace, to not lose his presence just yet pushes her a little further.

“Arya says your training is going well.” 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Jaime has the oddest thought as they walk, that she speaks like his father did. Economically, with as few words as it takes to get to the point, and nothing more. There are no extraneous details, no explanations, no entendres. She says exactly what she means to say. Just like his father, but just like Brienne, too. Is it honor or cunning driving her? And then he wonders why it can’t be both. 

Then too, there’s the unmistakable aura of control around her at all times. In fact, the only easing of it had come that day in the Godswood, and even then, it had only been by the barest hint. It’s the kind of control that calls to people, that inspires them without them knowing. It’s a kind of control that Daenerys Targaryen will never be capable of, and one that frightens her greatly. 

He hopes his little brother knows what he’s doing. 

He doesn’t doubt that Lady Stark will tell Daenerys where to shove it, though couched in slightly more polite terms. In his trial, it was Lady Stark who had decided he would stay, and he had. He doesn’t see why it should be any different this time around. That’s all they say on the matter, and then the ever present silence seeps back in, and he struggles to find anything else to say. 

_ Why does he want to?  _

But  _ she’s _ the first to break the silence, and it’s with… small talk? Or perhaps she’s merely asking about his life expectancy. Either way, his laughter catches him off-guard. 

“Is that what she told you? She killed me eleven times this morning. I’ve never seen anyone fight like her before, my lady. But I suppose I could be worse. I  _ have _ been worse.” If he were talking to Tyrion, he’d jape that he hadn’t come here for his good health, but he’s not sure it’ll strike quite the right tone with Lady Stark. He’d like to inspire at least a  _ little _ confidence in his abilities. “I will do my part.” 

**_S a n s a:_ **

There’s so little to say, so little to discuss, and very little of it is meaningful. There’s no sense in discussing what comes after the battle that’s to come, they haven’t won it yet and she has a feeling what victory will mean for her and Jaime Lannister. They’re at a ceasefire, a brief pause in being on opposite sides in a war.

Though with Brienne’s information that’s not necessarily indicative of they themselves being at war.

So what?

She’s thinking about it too much, Sansa decides suddenly as they walk. What does it matter right now anyway? There’s too much to worry about that matters immediately. How will they feed the rest of people making their way to Winterfell in the coming days? How will they prepare? Will there be enough weaponry?

Will the dragons eat them out of Winterfell before the Night King can even get to them?

Those are the more productive thoughts to have, the problems that they might be able to mitigate through a meaningful discussion at the council meetings.

Jaime Lannister laughs, and Sansa can’t help the way her lips tug up into a small smile as she stops on their walk to watch him. She’s not entirely sure what she’s said that’s either funny, or worthy of a laugh- but something about it feels warm. “In so many words.” There’s no need to go into detail about her sister’s descriptions, nor the fact that felt more like words said to soothe someone rather than update them.

She needs to talk to Arya.

“I don’t think anyone fights like her. But I’d trust her word on it. She speaks highly, Ser.” She pauses and smiles. “For Arya.”

_ I will do my part. _

It also feels as if Ser Jaime feels like he ought to reassure her too, and suddenly Sansa thinks she must not be concealing her thoughts as well as she should. Is her conflict with his man so clearly written across her features? Her newfound unease at...

She’s not even sure  _ what's causing _ all of this unease.

“I have no doubt you will.” Brienne believes in him, and she believes Brienne. Her fingers flex, as if about to reach out and touch his wrist, but instead Sansa spies Lyanna Mormont and she knows that her time is up. Perhaps she will be able to find him later. “If you’ll excuse me, Ser Jaime. I’ll see you at the small council meeting.”

If she hesitates before she leaves the moment is gone as quickly as it came.


	4. iv. consensus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can’t protect you if you ride south,” Sansa whispers.

**_s a n s a:_ **

Forty two.

It’s the number of steps that it takes her to walk until she finds and obstacle and has to change her path. The library is a mess, what with Samwell Tarly searching for any kind of advantage that they can find in the final nights. He’s traded his studies tonight for grief, the lack of his candle, or sleeping form atop a desk a harsh reminder of the latest news.

Brienne had tried to insist on coming with her, reminding her of her status as sworn shield, but Sansa  _ can’t _ . She needs to think, she needs to breathe, and she doesn’t think she can stand to have anyone near her. It feels like too much, she could barely get her hands to stop shaking underneath the table all throughout dinner. They shake now as she paces, and the Lady of Winterfell’s composure begins to crack as she struggles to make sure that she is alone before she loses any sort of control.

Daenerys Targaryen  _ scares _ her. More than that, she scares even the people who are loyal to her and Jon- Jon doesn’t see it. He’s bent the knee to the beautiful Queen, totally and utterly beguiled with his new love. It must be why, and she wants to shake him until there’s some sense, until he opens his eyes. She had meant what she had said in her first conversation with the Queen- men do stupid things for women. They’re easily manipulated. Her brother is no different.

If they win this battle, if Cersei Lannister falls – and Sansa isn’t convinced one way or another. Not yet. If Cersei is underestimated, it might not matter that Daenerys has two dragons. Or- or it might not matter, depending on what Daenerys will do in order to secure her place on the Iron Throne. Not when it does not matter to her whether her closest advisor is decent, but instead ruthless.

What happens  _ afterwards.  _ What about the North?

What happens to families like the Tarlys?

There is no broaching the topic again – she had been clear after Ser Jaime’s trial. If Daenerys Targaryen takes the Iron Throne, she intends to rule the  _ Seven  _ Kingdoms. And those who do not bend the knee will burn.

How does she protect her family? The North?

The opening of the library door jars her, and she bashes her knee into the corner of a table as she whirls around to see who has found her.

“I-"

Her throat goes dry and she has to press both heels of her palms tightly against her eyes to push back the tears. Not him – not him. She does not want to break even further in front of him.

But she doesn’t want anyone other than him either, and the thought is so contradictory that she might be sick, so she turns away quickly and tries to take some slow breaths. They’re short, hard to swallow and her lungs feel like they’re  _ burning _ \- and isn’t that fitting-

“A minute, Ser Jaime,” she tries, and fails, to keep the waver out of her voice but refuses to turn around and meet his eyes.

**_j a i m e:_ **

He doesn’t  _ look _ for Lady Sansa. It’s too active a word and it would mean too many things he’s not ready to have it mean yet. But he no longer avoids her as he had the first days after his arrival. 

He had, in fact, been looking for Samwell Tarly, who he hadn’t even realized was here. He had heard the news, and had intended to confer upon him his brother and father’s military honors as their commander, as was their due. He deserved to know that his father and brother had been both brave and principled up until the last, and it was Jaime’s job to tell him so. He’d been informed that Samwell spent most his time in the library, and he hadn’t expected anything else.

Certainly not Sansa in  _ tears _ . He steps forward, alarmed, before falling still. She deserves comfort, and  _ needs _ it no doubt, but that doesn’t mean she wants it from him. He thinks about stepping out to retrieve Brienne, but then realizes there is no force other than the woman in front of him who could’ve prevented Brienne from being with them right now. 

Instead he sits at a table a few feet away from her, giving her distance and time to compose herself. 

“Cersei has a weapon to take down her dragons,” he says quietly. He doesn’t want to be overheard, but it’s equally important for Lady Sansa to know. It doesn’t matter if you win the battle if you haven’t given thought to the one that follows. 

Daenerys terrifies him. 

“I don’t understand the fine details of them, but they’re little more than a reinforced and oversized crossbow. Tarly could likely figure it out,” he murmurs. He doesn’t try to comfort her because he doesn’t know how, for one, and he’s not sure he  _ can.  _ But having a solution to a problem generally helps. Eventually a Daenerys will go South to fight his sister. And then Sansa can begin to prepare for the inevitable turn back North.

He wonders if Daenerys will ever grow tired of conquering, because she’ll have to do quite a lot of it in the future. 

“You’ll probably have most of winter to prepare anyway. Her dragons don’t seem to like the cold.”

**_s a n s a:_ **

Sansa doesn’t turn around at first – there’s something comforting and terrifying in the fact that Ser Jaime Lannister has seen her, has found her. She focuses instead on her breath, willing it to go back to something that can at the very least be ignored if not believed, but it’s slow to come. All her thoughts go to the future, to what’s to come to Westeros  _ after  _ the battle against the dead and the Gods know she’s only borrowing trouble. They’re not there yet – that’s what most anyone would tell her, but not Littlefinger. Not Cersei. Not anyone who has managed to live longer than most in this game of survival.

In one breath, she wishes he would leave, that the silence that so typically builds between them will become too much and he will bow out and take his leave, but in the next breath she wants him to stay, even if he has nothing to say. It takes a few moments but his usual effect on her begins slowly. The fear is still there, but she can breathe, and she can at the very least fake her way through this conversation until she can find another room of privacy and allow herself to crumble.

She turns and waits for whatever it is, it’s not often that Jaime Lannister searches her out – and it’s only then that she realizes he might not have been. She’s told no on where she had been intending to go, and she thinks she might have noticed the Knight following her...

Whatever she’s expecting, it’s not the quiet admission that his sister has a weapon to take down dragons, and the thought almost,  _ almost _ causes her previous sobs to erupt from her throat in laughter. Because  _ of course she does _ . Sansa doesn’t say anything, just watches Ser Jaime with wide eyes, her fingers clutching onto the skirt of her dress as she tries to focus on remaining calm, in control.

It’s not working.

Is he giving her the information to commission such a weapon, or because he believes that Cersei will win the battle when Daenerys turns her dragons towards King’s Landing? Or to be ready to fight the Dragon Queen and potentially her brother after she’s taken the Iron Throne?

She doesn’t move from her spot – she can’t take a step towards him for fear of her knees giving out from behind her, and if it’s a choice of collapsing or not, she’ll stay put. But her knuckles turn white as she squeezes, and she has to blink her eyes as her vision blurs.

“Either way the North isn’t safe. My family isn’t safe.” She will not bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, Cersei Lannister (which is laughable, she surely will die if Cersei turns her forces North upon defeating dragons) or anybody else. The North will not answer to anyone else, not after everything they’ve lost, everything that they had fought for—

and Jon. How does she protect him from Daenerys? From the men who believe he betrayed them when he had used his best judgment to try and win against the dead?

From himself?

No, she doesn’t know what kind of future Ser Jaime predicts, but the way he talks about it- it’s as if he doesn’t intend to be around to see it either way.

And that terrifies her almost as much as the others.

“And I can’t protect you if you ride south,” Sansa whispers, looking away to avoid any sort of pity that might meet her gaze.

**_j a i m e:_ **

He  _ hates  _ seeing her like this. It surprises him how much. He wants to hold her and stroke her hair until her breath stops hitching and his doublet has soaked up all her tears. It’s unnerving, even more so knowing that he can’t do any of those things at all, and to attempt to would be disastrous. 

Unsurprisingly, his words only seem to make things worse, and this time, his fingers curl into a fist below the table to keep himself from going to her. 

“Cersei will lose if Daenerys survives the battle of the dead,” he says woodenly. His feeling about Cersei are complicated to say the least, but he doesn’t want her dead. It doesn’t change the facts of the matter though. “Her army of sell swords doesn’t trust her or love her, and there’s no guarantee they’ll even stay put once they see a dragon. Euron stands a better chance, but he’s only good on sea. Daenerys will bring King’s Landing down around my sister. But at the very least it buys you time. The North won’t be the only land she needs to focus on subduing, and, with Jon at her side, she may not even realize she doesn’t have it right away.”

He finally stands, because he can’t take the distance anymore. He means to tell her other things too, like about the caches of wildfire beneath the city, and the weaknesses he noted in the Dothraki, anything that could give her an edge, but when she speaks next…

His first though is to ask if she  _ wants _ to protect him, but then he thinks about economy of speech. She wouldn’t have said it if it weren’t something that mattered to her. His stomach squirms again, but this time the feeling isn’t completely awful. 

He doesn’t know how to respond though. He doesn’t want to misunderstand her, or underplay what she’s telling him, but he doesn’t want to assume either. 

He wants to warn her against offering him protection, because there’s so little she can truly protect him from in the scheme of things. Probably as much as he was able to protect her so long ago. But he knows how much that little bit matters. 

“Do you want me to stay in the North?” He asks quietly. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

He prophesizes his sister’s death as if he’s giving a report to the small council, only with much less amusement and japes. Sansa wants to disagree, wants to point out that Cersei has managed to find a way to kill every enemy she has come up against, but there’s no sense. He knows his sister, he knows her better than anyone – loves her. Daenerys might bring King’s Landing down around Cersei, it’s true – she knows it the moment he says it. But will that be the final stand, or will Cersei play a longer game? Will it turn it something else? Or will her dragon killing crossbows be enough to save her?

Can she bring down the Red Keep without her beasts?

Either way his words slowly start to help, whether it’s what he says or his voice Sansa isn’t entirely certain. She just recognizes that it’s easier to breathe, and that there is logic. If Daenerys is busy trying to get all of Westeros in line, to bend the knee – and Jon continues to act as the Warden of the North. If she can get him home- there’s a  _ chance _ . It’s small, but at the very least there’s time to think. Already her mind is working, trying to find ways to save her brother from this mess he’s caused for himself but there is still one glaring problem that can’t be fixed.

If Ser Jaime rides south to King’s Landing to fight for his sister, if he gives Daenerys any opportunity to enact revenge on him on her father’s behalf there will be no saving him. None of his plans have included any scenario where he seems to be in the North, where it is safe.

There’s also the other option- if he did manage to elude the Dragon Queen, and fight beside his sister. If Cersei won- would that put them once more on opposite sides of a war?

His silence is unbearable, and silently Sansa chides herself for revealing so much of herself so easily. It’s a foolish thought anyway, he’s here to honor a promise to fight for the living – and nothing more. He owes her nothing, they’ve always operated with that basic understanding.

But he steps closer, and it’s not close enough but she can’t bring herself to bridge the gap. Not when he’s looking at her as if he can see her every thought, as if he sees Sansa Stark beneath all of the expectations and roles and demands, and it’s too much – all of it is too much.

“I have no right to ask it of you – or even demand it.” He is not sworn to her, there is no oath beyond the one he has already kept. But that isn’t what he asks her, and Sansa digs her nails into the palm of her hand as she swallows.

“But yes. I want you to stay  _ here. _ ”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He’s never seen her like this before. Even in King’s Landing, she had been impenetrable to him. He can’t blame her for it, and wouldn’t want to; on the contrary, knowing this hides beneath her stoicism only makes her seem that much stronger in his eyes.

But it  _ hurts _ , and he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know what she wants from him, or if she wants anything at all. She hasn’t sent him away, she wants to protect him, but he doesn’t know what it  _ means _ . He just wants to be what she needs right now. 

She’d asked Joffrey to spare her father, and he’d cut off his head. She waited for Robb to rescue her, but he’d turned West instead, and died for it. She’d wanted to go home to Winterfell, and so she was sold to the Boltons for her name and her babes. 

He doesn’t want to promise her anything he can’t control. He can’t promise he’ll live through this battle, and he can’t promise the dragon queen won’t have him killed the moment the battle ends. But he can promise this. 

He still doesn’t try to invade her space, but he does reach out and take her hand. 

“Okay. Then I’ll stay.”

**_S a n s a:_ **

The moment the question falls from her mouth Sansa wants to take it back. It’s not that it isn’t true, it’s that is so painfully true that she’s afraid of what will be done with the information now that it’s out there. She knows what Littlefinger would suggest, she can already see the ways he would weave his web, to predict every outcome as if it has already happened. 

Jaime Lannister is not Baelish, Ramsay, or Joffrey. There has always been nothing but blunt honesty between them, even back in King’s Landing. The thought to consider her answer hadn’t even come to mind in that moment. But now she feels like the stupid, foolish girl - ready to believe the lie despite already knowing the truth. He’s told her as much - his Mark is not her name. And even if the names don’t matter, or they may mean different things to different people - she thinks his might matter to him. Just a little bit. 

She can’t bring herself to say more - to explain why she wants him to stay, but Jaime never asks. Sansa isn’t even sure she’d be able to put it into words if he did. 

His hand finds hers and her hand clutches onto it. It’s a natural instinct, and there’s no hesitation, no flinch or even desire to maintain the carefully crafted distance she used to put between them. 

Sansa holds his hand and doesn’t quite believe it when he quietly determines that he’ll stay - just like that. 

Does he mean it? She doesn’t dare ask. She just wets her lower lip and nods, eyes opening to find his for the first time since her declaration. 

“Okay. You’ll stay.” 

He’ll stay North, where she can protect him beyond the battle that is coming. He’ll be safe and there will be time to figure out their next steps - prepare for whatever war they will have to. 

Her thumb strokes the back of his hand as she takes in a deep breath and nods again. “First the dead, then everyone else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love to hear your thoughts, so leave us a comment. We appreciate each and every one <3


	5. v. united front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime looks around at the rest of the room incredulously, wondering if they could be serious. 
> 
> “You’re going to put your most defenseless population, who are hiding from dead men, in an inescapable labyrinth of dead men..?”
> 
> Everyone shifts uneasily. Varys coughs. Jaime looks at Jon. “Can they break through a sarcophagus?”
> 
> “It’s hard to say.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

They’ll be slaughtered. 

They’re discussing the battle plans in the small council meeting. Daenerys has already objected to his presence, claiming he’s spying on her for Cersei, though he’d been quick to point out that had Cersei actually come North with her troops, she’d be in this room staring at Daenerys’ numbers same as he is. 

Regardless, Cersei won’t  _ need  _ spies because they’ll all be dead when the Night King along comes, if this is their plan, and he says so. 

“Your trenches are far too close to the keep. We need to push them back as far as we can for as long as we can. If we make our first line of defense a stone’s throw from the walls, that’s where the battle starts. Put it a hundred yards away, they’re in range of the trebuchet. And the trebuchet, you’ve got those in the front, with no protection, so they’re the first to go. They should be behind the walls ideally, or on top of them if we have room, so that we get the most usage out of them for the longest amount of time. Speaking of the walls, they have no defenses whatsoever.” He turns to Sansa. “Can you spare any tar or pitch? We should have men with barrels full atop the walls and men with flaming arrows—”

“We  _ have _ men with flaming arrows,” the dragon queen says, between her teeth. 

“Excellent. They’ll be far more valuable lighting tar-covered dead men on fire, than hoping you singe their neckerchieves.”

“And why should we listen to you? How do I know you’re not trying to thin out my army for Cersei?”

It’s hard not to roll his eyes, or cut his glance over to Sansa’s. Daenerys has no mind for strategy, be it military or political, but as outlandish as some of her claims may seem, it’s not a game. It’s dangerous. If she suspects there is anything more between Sansa and he…

Not that there is. 

“If I were to thin out your army, I’d most likely die myself. I’m not keen on dying, and the only way to ensure that is to keep as many people alive for as long as we can.  _ That’s  _ my goal here. Your Dothraki can’t be the vanguard.”

“My Dothraki can be whatever I  _ say  _ they are.”

“Your Dothraki are fierce warriors,” he says, meeting Daenerys’ glare head on. “I fought them, and I lost. I’m not denying they are effective. You,” he says, pointing to the Dothraki in the room. “Why do the Dothraki scream?”

Missandei translates for them. “The Dothraki scream to put fear into the hearts of our enemies. We break their minds first, so breaking their bodies is easier. They run from us like dogs.”

He watches as Jon gets it first. 

“It won’t work on them. They don’t feel fear.”

“It won’t work on them,” he confirms. “Most cavalry don’t charge headlong into battle anyway. They’re good for breaking a line of men, but once that line is broken, your cavalry are done. How many dead are there?”

Everyone looks at each other, and Jon knocks his knuckles on the table as he tries to come up with an estimate. 

“Two hundred thousand, roughly.” Lord Bran says softly, eerily. The number drops like a bomb at the table, and Jaime has to take a shaky breath before continuing. 

“Facing those kind of numbers… it’s hard to imagine a scenario where your cavalry won’t just be riding to their deaths. These aren’t lines to be broken, or formations to shatter. This is a  _ wall of dead _ .” He pauses, aware now that he has everyone’s attention, but unsure where to go from here. 

Jon speaks up. “Stannis demolished the Wildlings by coming at them from both sides with his cavalry. He rode down thousands of men with a fraction of that number.” 

He nods. “Sides could work, if the dead  _ have _ sides to flank. I assume they’re coming from the North? Maybe we could keep the cavalry on the southerly side of the keep, have them come at the sides when the full assault has started.” He shakes his head. “It’ll do damage but we’re still just sending them to their deaths. I suppose there’s nothing for that, but you need to be prepared,” he says, looking straight at Daenerys. A queen keen on fighting wars cannot be surprised when she loses men. Surely she already knows that. “What of the people not fighting?”

This time it’s Tyrion who speaks. “We’re going to be in the crypts. They only have one known and accessible entrance, so it’s defensible, and secure.” 

Jaime looks around at the rest of the room incredulously, wondering if they could be serious. 

“You’re going to put your most defenseless population, who are hiding from dead men, in an inescapable labyrinth of dead men..?”

Everyone shifts uneasily. Varys coughs. Jaime looks at Jon. “Can they break through a sarcophagus?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“It’s hard to say,” Jaime repeats blankly, starting to feel angry at the sheer incompetence. They think they’re adults, they call themselves kings and queens and they don’t know  _ anything.  _ He has to remind himself to keep breathing. He didn’t know what would happen when he killed Aerys, he was a boy given a cloak and sword, and no one should’ve been surprised by what followed. 

“If you don’t know for sure, you can’t put them there.” He looks back at Sansa, more and more alarmed the more he learns.  _ This is their plan?  _ **_This_ ** _ is what they’ve got? _ “Are there other options? Isn’t there a keep nearby? Can any weaponry be spared? Even if they don’t know how to wield them, it’s better than nothing.”

Arya frowns and eyes the map of the terrain. “Castle Cerwyn is a half-day’s ride away in decent weather, but it can’t support this many people, and it doesn’t have the kind of defenses to withstand a siege of men for more than a few days, I would say, let alone a horde of the dead. There’s the kitchens? They’re in the lower levels, got two entrances but they could be blockaded. We can give them dragonglass shards, the ones that can’t be used for arrows or spears. They won’t be pretty but they’ll do in a pinch.”

He nods, eyes still on Sansa. 

The meeting continues for another hour, debating the minutiae of the battle. When they end, Daenerys is far more disgruntled, and he far more confident of their success. He waits for Sansa to make a move then follows behind her alongside Brienne. 

“Lady Stark,” he says before she can disappear. “Thank you for bringing me to the meeting. That was...it was good foresight.”

**_s a n s a:_ **

The reception she receives upon entering the small council meeting with Jaime Lannister at her side is mixed at best. Brienne wears a small, somewhat proud smile, but says nothing as Sansa takes her seat, making it clear that he will be sitting near her- not as a spectator, but as an actual participant. And if there’s any lingering confusion – her brother watches her curiously, and Arya wears an odd expression that appears half amused, half  _ bored _ as she fiddles with her dagger – Sansa means to make herself perfectly clear. Before Daenerys can so much as drawl her pointed displeasure, once everyone is seated she merely states; “Ser Jaime is here at my request.”

She had promised that she would handle the Dragon Queen’s displeasure, that she could protect him so long as he stayed North, and her word means nothing if she can’t keep it. She needn’t have been worried though. Briefly Sansa had wondered if Jaime Lannister had lost his famed sharp tongue somewhere along the way, but he manages just fine in dodging inane accusations which do nothing but  _ waste their time. _

Her family aren’t the only members of the war council who are taking note of the new dynamics. Lord Royce is watching he carefully, his distrust of Daenerys well known to her by now. He wears his distaste plainly, with no care for who sees it. No, the Northern lords do not trust the new Queen either, but Lord Royce has not said anything regarding the only man from Cersei’s court who rode north.

He’s considering him now, she thinks. They all are. Ser Jaime wastes no time in looking at the strategies that have been put together in order to make their great stand against the dead – and picking them apart with no care for hurt egos or softened pleasantries. Sansa lifts her hand and hides a smile by rubbing at the corner of her mouth. She hadn’t brought the Knight with the intention of irritating Queen Daenerys. She had meant what she had said when she had wanted to understand, when she had wanted to make sure that they were actually setting forward with a plan that could  _ work _ , and modest or otherwise Ser Jaime held the most experience out of anyone else in the room.

The fact that Queen Daenerys looks like she’s swallowed a particularly sour lemon cake is an added bonus.

But the further Ser Jaime digs, the more faults he finds with most of their lines of defense – the entertainment of the Dragon Queen’s displeasure quickly loses its luster. It’s worse than she had thought, and it’s only when Jon seems to finally get it – that the other Lords seem to understand what it is the experienced Lord Commander is saying, that she thinks something productive might actually come out of the war council.

She leans forward in her seat, shifts ever so slightly as her full attention is brought to what they’re saying. The Calvary broke through the Bolton army when Jon had been surrounded. They had come from behind- what of torches? What if the Calvary came through with  _ fire _ , to add another obstacle-

She doesn’t have time to grab Ser Jaime’s attention to ask. He’s focused on the crypts, on where the innocent and defenseless will be put – where she will no doubt be hiding with them - in an attempt to keep them safe, but even that seems  _ stupid _ and completely ill-advised with the way he questions it.

Have they thought through  _ anything _ ?

She meets his gaze, does her best to remain impassive and give nothing away. This is what they’re here for, to figure this out and not spiral in the fear of just how unprepared they are. Sansa nods in encouragement.

_ Keep going _ .

By the end of it they’ve by no means resolved everything, but it is one of the most productive meetings of the war council by far. She stands once Queen Daenerys does, and wastes no time in moving to the door, Brienne already leaning forward to whisper something in her ear, but someone interrupts just before she can say anything.

“I believe it is all of us who are in your debt, Ser Jaime,” she arches one eyebrow before she nods and tilts her head forward in invitation for him to join her. “You seem surprised.” By her ...foresight as he had put it, perhaps, or just on the lack of experience by those who are calling all of the shots, those of them who are responsible not only for what will happen, but for those who will answer their call and follow their demands without question. Sansa does not ask for clarification.

“You need tar and pitch. What else?” 

**_j a i m e:_ **

It’s odd, talking to her as if this is normal for them, though he supposes, it grows more comfortable with each passing conversation. And they  _ have _ grown in number. 

He thinks he’ll remember that moment in the library for the rest of his life. 

“I’m stunned, in truth. That battle plan was ineffective at best. Lord Royce at the very least should’ve known about the cavalry.” He pauses then, and looks at Sansa, eyebrows raised. Lord Royce  _ had  _ known about the cavalry, he realizes. The Knights of the Vale had not been a part of the vanguard. The hair on the back of his neck raises. 

_ How do I know you’re not trying to thin out my army?  _

He hadn’t been, but Jaime supposes Lord Royce can’t say the same. On the one hand, it’s a smart maneuver, and only a fool can’t see which woman Lord Royce is here to serve. But the foolishness of that endeavor can’t be denied either. They need  _ every man _ in this battle. Wasting the Dothraki like that… it’s a dangerous ploy, the first move in a war they can’t be focused on just yet. If their armies splinter in  _ any _ way, they are all dead. The last thing they need is infighting on the eve of battle. 

“I’m grateful to have been there, my lady,” he repeats, softly. He can see Brienne watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t know what to say to her. Sansa asked him to stay, so stay he will, for her. 

“We need tar and pitch on the walls, and actually, if we smear some on the edges, we can mount dragonglass in it, then light it on fire when the time comes. We need those shards for the women and children, and to start preparing the kitchens to withstand a siege. I suppose someone needs to make a decision on the position of the trebuchet…”

“ _ You  _ have to make that decision, Ser Jaime,” Brienne says quietly. 

He looks at her, then back to Sansa, feeling panic claw up the walls of his throat. He’s no stranger to command in war, but this is not a war they can lose. 

“I suppose we should take a walk on the ramparts, then.”

**_S a n s a :_ **

For all of the appearance he gives of not being keen on politicking, Ser Jaime certainly picks up on what some of what not even the Dragon Queen’s advisors have either missed or have momentarily turned a blind eye too. Lord Royce is bold in his opinions, and this is different than her merely keeping the fact that she had called upon them to fight for their home, for the Starks and for the North against Ramsay Bolton. The Knights of the Vale do not offer to join the Dothraki’s charge.

Sansa meets Ser Jaime’s gaze and says nothing to confirm nor deny the accusation he does not raise aloud. He knows, and she knows, and that is where it will stay. If Daenerys cannot realize on her own that she needs to earn the trust of the Lords, of the Houses of Westeros in order to truly claim the Iron Throne, it is not her job to educate it. 

It proves the knight right - when he had told her it would take longer than anticipated for Daenerys to take control of the remaining six kingdoms - that it might be some time before she turned her gaze back North. 

But then she thinks of the woman’s face when she had asked what about the North, what about her people who would never bend to anyone ever again. Sansa knows the Queen will think about that conversation about as frequently as she does, and perhaps her first stop will be back North to prove that she has her ‘allies’ in Westeros under thumb. 

The dead first, and then everybody else. 

“I will talk with Lord Royce,” she finally offers. She may not feel any obligation to encourage them to follow Daenerys’ orders, but perhaps they’ll be willing to make a stand of their own which may fall in line with Ser Jaime’s plans. Everyone must make sacrifices, must prepare for the dead, and if the Vale takes offense at the Dragon Queen, perhaps Ser Jaime Lannister’s strategy will sting less. 

It had certainly gotten his attention, at the very least. 

Maybe it’s the knight’s words, or maybe it’s the tone he takes, but Sansa’s lips quirk upwards and she brushes his fingers with her own. It’s not anything resembling the way she had clutched to his hand once he had offered it that night, but it’s a small acknowledgment meant just for him, all the same. 

“You’ll have whatever I can find, anything we can spare. You mentioned a wall of the dead,” two hundred thousand of them, by Bran’s count. “If more can be found, can we break it or slow it down before they’re so close?” 

All of his plans have her mind spinning with ways they can save more lives. If they can save more lives. 

Brienne says what she can’t yet, that he is the only one apart from her brother who she trusts to make that decision, and Jon will be fighting from a  _ dragon’s back _ . His fight will be different than everyone else’s, different Brienne’s battle, from  _ Ser Jaime’s.  _ They need to be confident in the plan if it has a shot at working. 

“We’ll go now.” There isn’t any time to waste, and she wants to see what he thinks about it all - and what else they might need to try and secure before time is out. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Sansa’s fingers brush his own, and the overwhelming urge to tangle them together nearly overtakes him. He manages little more than a twitch in reaction before she’s pulled away, but it’s enough. 

_ I want you to stay here.  _

Something is unfurling between them, something as delicate as a forest fern in spring, but it’s winter now, and there is no time for fragility, no room for a delicate touch. He lets the moment pass, though he yearns for the quietude of the godswood, for the stark honesty of the library. 

Soon. 

“It’s possible. Barrels of pitch can be launched at the dead from afar. Wildfire would be better, but we don’t have any of that. If we had more time, we could dig more trenches, make more tar… the dragons could scout, take out a few hundred here and there, but it’s too dangerous from what I understand. A risk I doubt the dragon queen would see as worth the pay out. What we’ve got now… it’s a good plan.” He can’t give her more than that, because the odds are still horrifically slim. But all they need is  _ one shot  _ at this Night King. This plan, at least, will buy them time. 

“Brienne. Lady Stark. I will do everything I can, and my experience is yours to do with what you will, but I cannot lead these men, you know that right?” No matter the circumstances, it’s not a risk they can take. Northmen will chafe under his command, and to disobey an order in battle is a death warrant, and not just for yourself. “Brienne, I’d be honored to serve under your command.” And he means it too. She may not have fought in any battles herself, not directly, but she’s got a keen sense for the way men fight, and a strong mind for tactical maneuvers. She’ll do well, and the men already trust her with their queen. 

He looks at Sansa, and bites back a smile. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

She watches him carefully, the control she had been struggling to find that night in the library firmly within her grasp. What comes next, Sansa isn’t sure – they haven’t spoken any further about  _ that _ – other things, yes, but not that – but maybe soon. Maybe once they defeat the dead, when they have time to breathe and think, and to figure out what everyone’s next steps are.

It’s funny. Even with all of the odds stacked against them, Bran’s numbers – Sansa hadn’t realized she’d actually begun to hope.

Ser Jaime’s mind works faster than hers with the possibilities of what they could do if they had more supplies, more time, and Sansa nods in understanding. Anything she can find to help she will, it’s in everyone’s best interest and she can’t see any argument against it. She’ll talk to Jon later too, she decides, and Arya and Bran. The changes to their plans and strategies are in the best interest of everyone, even the Dragon Queen’s forces, but even so she’ll check in with them.

It is a good plan, and their goal isn’t to kill every last wight that marches on Winterfell. It’s to give Jon and the dragons enough time to find the Night King and extinguish the threat before it’s too late.

What Sansa doesn’t expect is for the knight to say the truth so bluntly. She knows that he cannot command her family’s men. Old wounds run deep, and the North remembers. Him being here in a small step, but not nearly enough to give a Lannister such a title in their army. She just hadn’t been aware that  _ he _ knows it as well.

She may be able to protect him here in the North, but she cannot compel her people to respect him. That he will have to earn on his own if he stays.

When he stays, Sansa reminds herself as she steals another glance.

_ Brienne, I’d be honored to serve under your command. _

Her sworn shield has already been appointed with a command of her own- and as much as Sansa believes it would be the smart move to pair the two together, it is not her decision to make. She looks between the two for a moment and realizes that they must have a lot to discuss.

“I’ll leave you two to it.” It’s a quiet reaffirmation – she trusts Brienne’s judgment absolutely, and here she will only get in the way. “I will see what other supplies I can find for your plans, Ser Jaime.” 

**_j a i m e:_ **

Brienne’s eyes light with a watery pride he knows she’ll never admit to. It’s moment she’s earned, one that she deserves, but still his eyes watch as Lady Sansa walks away. There’s far too much left unsaid between them after every conversation, and yet there’s no time to say it, either. Not only that, but he’s not sure he could even begin to know  _ how _ to say such things. Whatever it is that thrums between them, he doesn’t see how it can ever see the light of day, not with who she is, and who he is, and the war that’s carved a gulf between them. 

“You should talk to her,” Brienne says, kindly and quietly. He only scoffs. 

“What’s there to say, Brienne?” What little they could offer each other will only end in heartbreak or war, probably both. And probably soon.

Her eyes cut to his clavicle, where the name  _ Alayne  _ sits, gathering dust just above his heart. 

“Maybe more than you think.” 

He looks at her sharply, and rubs self-consciously at the letters on his skin. It’s true, Alayne may not matter to him overly much, but that doesn’t mean his Mark is insignificant. Especially if Sansa thinks… 

He takes off down the hall, hoping to catch her before she’s swept away in a maelstrom of duty and preparation. 

“Sansa,” he breathes, managing to catch her wrist just before she turns a corner, and pulls her into an alcove near a window. 

“I’m sorry, I just—” He takes her hand and presses it to his Mark. “It’s not her. Cersei. I don’t know  _ who  _ it is, I’ve never met her, I’ve never even heard of her. But it’s not— It’s not  _ her.” _

**_S a n s a:_ **

There’s much to do, and she will not accomplish it if she cannot drag her mind away from the man she’s left behind on the battlements. Her feet carry her back towards the walls of her home, back to where it will be only slightly warmer than the rapidly dropping temperature outside. It’s only getting worse, which Sansa can only assume means that this battle, everything that they’ve been preparing for is near. It will make finding spare supplies more difficult, and even now her mind wanders towards those who are not camped within Winterfell, with its warm waters running through pipes and its fires for added warmth.

Soup might help – or rather broth, disguising itself as soup. She needs to find Theon, and perhaps finding ways to keep busy will help distract her mind from thoughts of Jaime Lannister.

There will be plenty of time with it, she thinks, when she inevitably ends up in the kitchen with the others who cannot fight.

She just barely catches the whisper of her name – she’s not sure she’s ever heard him speak to her so informally, but there’s no flinch has she falls into step with him, right into the shadows.

It’s different from how it felt with Baelish – how it felt with anyone else – and she looks up at him, one eyebrow arched in question as an attempt to disguise just how fast her heart is beating, and just how difficult it suddenly is to breathe.

Another apology. She wants to laugh, crack a small jape for just the two of them, but it’s not the time. She can’t process why, what it is he’s trying to do, and her fingers stretch out over where she imagines his Mark must be, her thumb dragging across the letters of the name he bears.

It’s personal, it belongs to him and she ought to pull back but he’s started it and-

It’s  _ not _ Cersei.

She has no right, no claim to feel anything. He had told her years ago it was not her name, but somehow those few words hit harder than anything else Jaime Lannister has said to her.

Sansa doesn’t say anything, not at first. She blinks rapidly to prevent even one tear from falling – Cersei will not get another one as long as she breathes – and her eyes fall from his to the spot that her hand covers. She doesn’t ask him who’s name it is, that is his alone. It is personal, private, and she won’t take that from him. Not like it had been taken from her.

“I-"

What does she say? What  _ can  _ she say? That she’s relieved? That she has no way of explaining  _ why _ that relief seems to seep into her very bones?

“I don’t think she would deserve it if it was,” is what Sansa settles on before she takes a hesitant step forward and brushes her lips across his cheek. 

**_j a i m e:_ **

He has the sudden outrageous thought that, despite the cold, he wishes he was wearing less. Not… not like  _ that,  _ but just simply to know the sensation of her fingertips stretching out across his skin. His fingers flex around her wrist where they hold her hand in place, and he wonders if he’ll ever meet Alayne, if she’ll be  _ safe _ for him in a way no one he’s ever loved has been. He wonders why that sounds  _ horrible.  _

Abruptly, he lets go of Sansa’s wrist, horrified that he touched her without—

Her lips brush against his cheek, and his fingers close around her once more without his consent. 

He pulls back and looks at her, brows furrowed, searching her gaze. She hadn’t wanted him before, and he hadn’t wanted her either. But it’s different now,  _ they’re  _ different now. It’s still not her name, but it doesn’t  _ matter  _ anymore. It hasn’t ever mattered. 

_ What do you want, Sansa?  _

Her skin is silken at her wrist beneath his thumb, and he leans forward, slow, eyes on hers with every millimeter he inches forward. 

The doors to the kitchens slam open, and they’re not in view yet, but he jerks back all the same. His fingers squeeze her wrist, his thumb strokes one more time, and then he lets her go. 

“We have to talk about this,” he whispers, knowing even as he says it that they  _ can’t.  _

**_S a n s a:_ **

If Jaime thinks he’ll find any answers in her, she doesn’t want to be the one to disappoint him but she has none. Her lips had found his cheek in the whisper of a kiss because  _ she  _ had wanted to. There had been no pressure on his end, the opposite quite honestly, and it’s the first one she’s freely given of her own. No one else can take that from them, and the corner of her mouth quirks upwards ever so slightly as her eyes meet his.

What is she doing? Her Mark might be his name, it might mean something to her after all – but his name isn’t hers. It’s not Cersei’s, but it isn’t Sansa either...And doesn’t he deserve to find out one day? If they all live through this battle, if she can protect him until the next threat is handled, shouldn’t he find out what the person whose name he wears can mean to him? Might already mean to him, even if he doesn’t know? She thinks of how he had crept up on her, how despite everything that stands between them, the Mark might know more than anyone else on its own in this regard.

But he’s stepping closer and she’s not naïve enough not to know what comes next – only this time she’s not only expecting it, or spectating – she leans forward in anticipation and –

The lack of space between them is quickly put back, and she already misses the feel of his fingers on her wrist.

She’s not even sure she knows what  _ this  _ is.

But whatever time they might have had to discuss, it’s gone. There’s too much to do, and she thinks she might hear a commotion coming down the hall--

“We will.” Because whatever this is, it’s palpable between them – and there’s no sense in denying it.

Sansa finds she doesn’t want to deny it.

“Soon.” 


	6. vi. grasping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to stay here, with you, and live.” 

**_j a i m e:_ **

It hadn’t been long after that hushed moment in the corridor that Bran had informed them that the Wall had fallen, and that they had mere days to prepare. The talk they had needed to have had been pushed aside. Likely a good thing, at the rate it had been going. 

Jaime is perhaps not cunning in the way of his siblings, but even he can see the fractured ice he stands on with the Dragon Queen. The best thing for them is for her to think he is the odd man out, here, that he has no allies, no army, and no power. It’s not  _ un _ true, per se. Whatever she is to him, he would not call Sansa his ally. Or rather, he would not call himself _hers._ There is nothing he can give her that will shore up her political position, and in fact, whatever this thing is that they are doing, it’ll likely only serve to infuriate the North if they ever find out. Any way it is split, they make one another vulnerable, and, like wildfire, it’ll only take the smallest wrong touch to bring everything down around them. 

That doesn’t mean that the desire to be near goes away, that he doesn’t ache to hear her calmly and strategically put Daenerys in her place time and time again. It doesn’t make it easier to forget the feel of her lips against his cheek. 

It’s the worst time for this, but it’s never been a good time either, and he’s not fool enough to think it’ll get easier as they go. There is the dead, and the Dragon Queen, and his own sister, not to mention the history between he and her family… He’s not sure what they’ll ever be allowed to have, but he wants it nonetheless. 

And if they’re to die tonight… 

He has no desire to go outside, not with the actual horrors that he knows are waiting out in the dark, but it’s not a conversation they can safely have inside either. He leaves the Great Hall after their last dinner before the battle, feeling her gaze follow him out. 

She’ll know where to find him, he’s sure, and if she’s not, there’s always Lord Bran. 

The Godswood doesn’t feel any less eerie now than it had before, but it’s a  _ different  _ eerie than the rest of the darkness. This is the eerie of powers he doesn’t understand, not the terror of the coming dead. He stares at the weeping tree and he wonders why it cries. Surely, if the Gods were unhappy with what they saw… couldn’t they simply change it? 

He rubs at his Mark, and scoffs. Of course they wouldn’t, not even if they could. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

They’re out of time.

Every moment where she thinks they may have a second, just a spare  _ something  _ to at least acknowledge that the conversation is still on her mind, that she still wants to talk to him, to pick up where they had left off in that alcove, something else pops up and carries her attention away. There are the supplies that she’s been trying to secure to strengthen their defensives as Jaime’s plans had suggested, there’s the fact that the gates to the keep have been kept open as long as possible to let people come and find what little safety left there is North and—

And then Bran’s announcement comes that the Wall has fallen, and they know it’s only a matter of days, maybe less, until the dead are upon them.

Everything they’ve been planning and preparing for has come to this, and maybe by dawn they will know if Jon’s gamble of bending the knee to the Dragon Queen, of going to her in an attempt to plead for her help and coming back with something else altogether, will pay off. Sansa hopes so. She hopes they live through one war to rest and then better prepare for the inevitable second, and possibly third.

Dinner is a solemn affair. There’s some war chatter amongst the warriors, some drinking, but it’s impossible to miss the edge that sits in the room, or the way that conversation inevitably begins to fall quiet.

It’s a night to stay close, to spend time with family, and she’s sure she will find her siblings later. But there’s one figure who stands up when he’s finished eating and her eyes can’t leave his form. She knows it’s foolish, that it’s likely that no one has missed where the Lady of Winterfell has trained her eye, but it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care, not tonight. She promised they would speak, that they would at least address whatever it was building between the two of them, and well.... There might not be another chance.

She waits until an acceptable amount of time has passed before she slowly rises, and shakes her head when Brienne moves her hand to the sword at her side and makes way to follow. Not this time. She will be safe for these last remaining hours, and Jaime Lannister will not harm her.

Brienne knows this too, Sansa thinks, because she gets an odd sort of look on her face before she sits back down and turns her attention back to Podrick.

It’s colder out than it had been that day out on the battlements, and the pressure shift makes it feel like a storm is blowing in. The Night King’s magic, she thinks Jon had said, but it doesn’t prevent her from walking to the Godswood. She doesn’t need to check with Bran this time, and she starts her search for the knight where she had ended her last one for him, upon his arrival North.

_ Are you alright? _

_ Will we win this? _

_ What are we doing? _

There’s too many questions, with some answers she isn’t even sure she’s prepared to hear.

Sansa stands beside him, her arm pressed up against his side as she looks to see what he’s looking for, before her gaze turns to him.

“Are you ready?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He hears her approach, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t need to; he knows it’s her. 

Sometime in the course of the past few days, the horrible awkwardness between them had fallen away. He knows the moment, actually. When she had taken his hand in the library, and admitted she wanted him to stay. 

That was really all he needed to know, he supposes. It’s been confusing, yes, not knowing where they stood, but he knew she didn’t want him  _ gone,  _ and it’s been enough. 

But if he’s to die tonight…

He snorts at her question. “No. I don’t know that you can be, really. Well.  _ You _ can be. That wouldn’t surprise me.” Everything about her has been so surprising since he arrived, that he’s decided there’s not really anything she can’t achieve. If there’s anyone in Westeros who can look death in the face without shuddering… well, they must be a Stark, one way or another. If there’s anyone who can look death in the face and know they did everything possible to prepare for it… There’s only one person who can say that. 

“I was scared right up until the moment I put my blade in Aerys Targaryen’s back. Every morning I woke up afraid and every night I laid in my bed, awake and afraid. After that… I hadn’t been afraid again until I stood outside these walls. Not even when they took my hand. That was panic, more than anything else. When Tyrion lost his trial by combat, I wasn’t afraid, I was determined. When Myrcella started spitting blood at me, I didn’t have time to be afraid.”

_ I was afraid to see you again. I’m afraid to die.  _

“It’s a better death than a bear pit, at least,” he mutters to himself. 

**_S a n s a:_ **

The unspoken agreement to only speak honestly with one another makes itself known again, and Sansa doesn’t know why she’s relatively surprised this time. She had been expecting another sort of assurance, similar to after he had torn the war council’s plans apart before building it up again. She knows the odds, but they had come up with the best that they could in the time that they’re given. There won’t be much sleep tonight within the walls of Winterfell, and she knows that she will be watching from the battlements as the battle begins.

She won’t abandon the people fighting, she won’t abandon her family, or Jaime. She won’t leave them to these wights, not when they’re meant to be facing this enemy together.

But no, Jaime doesn’t give false assurances, and doesn’t hide behind japes or arrogance. He talks about times he had been scared—and she can’t help but wonder what he sees when he sees Daenerys before him, burning her enemies, determined to find the Iron Throne. Is it her father reborn before his eyes?—and times he hadn’t been, and she can’t help but realize that he doesn’t say anything, one way or the other, regarding how he feels now.

She turns to her right to face him better, her hand finding his live one before she gives into the urge of lacing their fingers together.

_ I’m afraid too _ .

The words don’t form, she can’t bring herself to say them, as much as she can’t bring herself to give him any sort of false courtesy. Sansa can’t guarantee that he’ll live, that any of them will live through the night. But there is a chance, no matter how slim, that this will work.

She brings his hand to her lips, and presses a long, lingering kiss there. She stopped dreaming about favors, tourneys and knights long ago...But if it can bring him any luck, then it’s worth that small chance too.

“Fear wasn’t enough to stop us before. There’s still hope, Jaime.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

She presses her lips to the back of his palm, and he hasn’t cried in years, but he thinks he could cry now if he let himself. He doesn’t understand Sansa, doesn’t understand how she could stand here with  _ him _ , press kisses into  _ his _ skin as if his son hadn’t tried his damnedest to break her. He doesn’t understand how one person can be so  _ good.  _

But she’s right. There is hope, mostly due to her own quick thinking. 

He pulls her forehead to his lips with his stump without a care for her disgust. He knows it’s not there. 

“Sansa,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s  _ afraid.  _ He’s terrified, and there’s nothing more he can do to prepare himself, nothing he can do to change this. He doesn’t want to die before they even had a chance. 

“I don’t know why it’s not you,” he confesses. What does he have left to lose? “When you disappeared… I should’ve been mourning for my son, but instead all I could think about was you. If you were safe, if you were alive, if Brienne had found you. I thought about you all the time. I didn’t even know you, but all I could think was I had promised your mother and I was so tired of breaking my promises. I just wanted you to be safe. Seems dumb,” he says, with a huff of laughter. “My family was torn to shreds before my very eyes—half my fault, at the very least—but all I could think about was if you were safe.” 

He steps back, and presses her fingers to his Mark again. “Her name is Alayne Stone. I’ve never even  _ been  _ to the Vale. If… if you ever meet her, tell her I wish her the best, and that she’s probably lucky she missed me. I was never for her, anyway.”

**_S a n s a:_ **

His lips find her forehead and Sansa fights back a shuddering breath that feels very much like it might turn into a sob. It’s too much all of a sudden, but not enough. It feels nothing like the kisses Baelish would steal, nothing like what Ramsay would do to her, and while she hadn’t ever expected it to, she never expected  _ this.  _ It feels right, even if by all rights it shouldn’t, and Sansa closes her eyes and chooses to just breathe him in, to steal whatever precious moments they have left before war settles in.

Her hands find his chest and she’s content to just stand there a little while, she thinks, feeling the warmth of his breath hit her ear every time he exhales, just more proof that they’re here, still alive, even if it’s just for a few more hours. He says her name and Sansa digs her fingers into the fabric of his furs just to prove that she’s still there, with him.

And she finds that she wants to tell him everything. That she never killed Joffrey, although there had been the one time on Traitor’s Walk where she wanted to, where she would have if she could have gotten away with it. She wants to tell him that while she hadn’t been safe, that his part had worked. She had just been the idiot the first time to turn Brienne away, to go with Petyr Baelish to the Vale. She might not have been safe in the Vale, nor Winterfell when she had been brought home the first time but Brienne had come. Because of him.

She finds she wants to tell him about how her own thoughts had gone to him when Robb had held him captive. She wants to tell him how all she thought about were his conditions, if he was being treated well, how she had longed to trade places with him. But he pulls back, and her hand is back on his mark, and he’s speaking saying  _ her name— _

“What did you just say?” The words burst out like a broken whisper, and suddenly Sansa needs to sit down.

_ Alayne Stone. _

She hasn’t thought of that name since she had sentenced Littlefinger to death, had tried to bury those memories, determined never to be anybody but Sansa Stark ever again.

_ Alayne Stone. _

Her eyes stare at the spot where Jaime’s mark must be underneath the layers of clothes, bearing the name of her alias while she had been in the Vale, while he had been worrying about her safety—

Is that even possible?

_ I am Alayne, Father. Who else would I be? _

She must have misheard him, he must have misspoken. “Alayne Stone?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

Maybe the strangest part of this isn’t that his name  _ isn’t  _ her, but rather that she wears  _ his _ . The fact that she stands here with him, and doesn’t pull away, in fact, only tangles her fingers in his cloak to hold him closer… He doesn’t understand the games that gods play. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes. Everyone  _ knows _ the names rarely ever work out well. After all, he knows what Robert and Cersei had to stare at every time they fucked, and if  _ that  _ hadn’t been a joke, this certainly isn’t. 

But still, he doesn’t understand what Sansa had done to deserve everything that has happened to her. Jaime knows his own sins inside and out, and he can’t truly claim that any of his lot is unfair, but  _ she… _

Sansa pulls away, her eyes wide as the moon, and Jaime feels his stomach drop out from beneath him. 

_ No.  _

“Don’t tell me you know her, Sansa.  _ Please,”  _ he begs, stepping closer. “Not tonight, I can’t— I don’t  _ want her.  _ Fuck.” A hoarse laugh barks free from his throat and it’s an ugly sound. “I’m yours, Sansa. I  _ chose _ you, just like you chose me.” 

She’d endured the worst violation he can think of— _ again and again and again— _ and she  _ still _ chose to bear his name. That should mean something. 

Fuck. 

He thinks about telling her he’ll cut his off too, promising her that when morning comes it’ll say her name just like he knows it  _ should,  _ but he can’t make himself say the words. What was done to her… mutilating himself wouldn’t make this any better, it would only make a mockery of the choice she made every day, despite it meaning her very life could’ve been the price. 

“I chose  _ you.”  _

**_S a n s a:_ **

Why Alayne? Had it been to protect them both? She doesn’t think so, but then again Sansa isn’t sure what she knows. Had Jaime’s name reappeared each morning because she had wanted it to, because she had  _ willed  _ it to, or was it because she was meant to have his name as her Mark? Is there any correlation to what happens in this world, or are they at mercy to the Gods’ wills?

Is it even the Gods?

Perhaps someone will one day be able to piece together the puzzle more efficiently, maybe one day – assuming there is a Westeros after the battle against the dead – they will have more answers. But her name, her alias, has been Jaime’s Mark and Gods, Sansa isn’t sure if she wants to laugh or cry. Her mind can’t quite catch up, it’s stuck on  _ why.  _ Why Alayne Stone, and even  _ how.  _ If his Mark had been that name even before she had gone to the Vale, could there be another? Could this mean something else, and she’s grasping at straws to have something she so desperately wants but doesn’t know how to say?

There’s too many things ready to burst out of her mouth, too many things she wants to say, and apparently, the reaction to that is to not say anything at all. Sansa doesn’t know where to start, and it’s only when she looks up that she realizes he’s trying to recapture the closeness and she reaches for his hand without hesitation and rests it where they both know his name remains.

_I chose you_ , he says again and again, and she chose him, and in a way he’s right. He just doesn’t know that he’s chosen the name that’s already been given to him.

“I know her, but so do you,” Sansa says softly, her voice hoarse as she refuses to let go of the hand that she holds to her Mark, her thumb dragging across his knuckles.

Honesty. They’ve agreed to it without saying as much and...Gods he needs to know. Even if he chooses her anyway, because of course she chooses him. She’s chosen him every day since Ramsay first tried to cut him out of her.

“When I fled King’s Landing, after the wedding....I was brought to Baelish at the Fingers. It was too dangerous to be recognized immediately, so we darkened my hair and tried to pass me off as his bastard daughter.” She takes a small breath.

It doesn’t matter. He said he chose her, so this shouldn’t change anything.

It could change everything.

He should know.

“Alayne, after his mother.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

He shakes his head, the denial rote at this point.  _ I don’t know her, Cersei, I’ve never met her, she doesn’t matter.  _ And then later, to himself,  _ I don’t want her, it should be Sansa, why not Sansa?  _

But Sansa presses her hand to his name on her chest, and  _ that’s _ what’s important. He knew she’d agree—

But she keeps talking, telling him how she met Alayne in the Vale with Baelish...but...not that at all..?

Everything slows down as his eyes move from their joined hands on her skin, up to her eyes. What she’s saying is that… 

“Alayne Stone. Littlefinger’s bastard daughter,” he repeats, voice wooden. That means…

It’s been her. His whole life, it’s been  _ her.  _

“ _ You’re  _ Alayne,” he says, hoarsely. It’s  _ painful _ and he doesn’t know why. Rationally, this is good news. They  _ match _ , and yet… He pulls her close, pressing his nose to the top of her head. They’ve wasted so much time, and now they’re out of it. Why would his name be Alayne? His eyes cut to the weeping tree, and he grits his teeth. 

“It’s you,” he says finally, trying to get ahold of his shaky breath. “All this time, it’s been you.” He does smile then, because he won’t waste another second raging at the unfairness of the gods. “Good. Good?” _It is good, right? Is this good?_ His face freezes once more, because gods be damned, the entire reason they were out here—

“Tell me what you want Sansa. I live, and you live, and the dead are gone...What do you want?” 

**_S a n s a:_ **

Alayne Stone. She can’t unhear the name now that he’s said it, and it repeats over and over again in her mind. Why? How? Would Jaime’s Mark be her own mother’s name if they had gone with Littlefinger’s first suggestion? Too obvious, he had said while looking at her hair before it had been darkened, though she thinks it may have been too obvious for more reasons than just that.

It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, she isn’t crazy. She hasn’t been imagining this thing growing between them, it’s been there longer than either of them have even known.

Not anymore, she wants to say. Not for a long time. She isn’t anyone other than Sansa Stark. She is who he’s chosen, same as him with her. The only difference was instead of some sort of alias, she’s always had his given name.

Perhaps it’s for the best, she thinks as she watches Jaime sort through his thoughts. She doesn’t want to imagine what Cersei would have done to her had Jaime’s Mark been  _ Sansa. _

“Good,” she whispers against his chest, her arms hesitantly reaching up to wrap around him in a hug. She’s never been so close like this, not with anyone that isn’t family, and yet it feels right, and she wants to because how is she supposed to  _ let go  _ now that they’ve chosen one another, now that they know everything that they do. “It is good, Jaime. But I’d still choose you, mark or not.”

If he moves to pull back, she tries to bring him back to where they are. Not yet, she doesn’t want to walk back to the Keep yet, she doesn’t want to go through the motions of half good-byes, half see you on the other side of this. She wants more time, and they’re out of it.

And then Jaime asks her what she wants and for the life of her...Sansa doesn’t know how to answer him.

She tilts her head back only just enough so that she can find his eyes, her hands dragging from his back to his shoulders. What does she want? It’s not the first time he’s asked it of her. He asked her in the library too, what she had wanted, if she wanted him to say...And with an affirmation, he willingly gave it.

Sansa shakes her head, even as her fingers continue their gentle exploration of him. “I don’t ask for many things, not anymore.” But she will do whatever she can to make whatever it is happen. “My family will be safe, the North will not bow to anyone and I will protect you. Us.”

She smiles at the thought, however fleeting.

“What do  _ you _ want, Jaime?”

**_j a i m e:_ **

There’s too much to make sense of any of it. All he knows is that  _ it’s her _ and she hasn’t let go of him yet. She’s  _ happy.  _ It hurts, yes, but it’s still  _ good.  _ Maybe he only has hours to live, but at least he knows. He was already ready to fight as best he could to return to her, and this doesn’t change that. But for all their cruelty, this at least makes it feel ordained, in some way. If the Gods will give them this, they must be meant to succeed, mustn’t they? 

She doesn’t say what she wants, but rather what will be, and the thought makes him smile, because he believes her. He’d dare anyone to try and make a liar of her, in fact. 

What does he want? 

He wants an end to the wars he’s been fighting for so long. He wants Tyrion to be safe, and maybe far away from his dragon queen. He wants Arya to keep shouting  _ Dead!  _ at him in the training yard. He wants to hear the songs they’ll sing of Ser Brienne. He wants to see his name on Sansa’s skin. He wants to know what it feels like to wake up beside her unafraid of who sees. 

He laughs. “I want to live, mostly. But then, just you. I just want you.” 

He’s had the fame and glory and gold. He’s killed kings and fucked queens. He’s won wars and lost them, too. He wants peace, and quiet. To hold her hand in the library and to keep his promise that he’ll stay. 

“I want to stay here, with you, and live.” 

**_S a n s a:_ **

Is it too much too quickly? Even if it is, she can’t regret telling him. What if they lose the battle, if the dead win and they’re all soon amongst the army continuing south? It’s a dark thought, a possibility, but one Sansa doesn’t want to dwell on. There’s still a chance, but he knows now, they both do, and that’s better. Her fingers brush against the scruff of his beard along his jawline, letting herself do now what she’s been thinking of for quite some time.

It’s personal, and Sansa hesitates after a moment- realizing that she’s been taking liberties with him while he’s been kind and considerate to make sure that even the smallest touches that he takes or they share are welcomed before he does so.

“May I?” She asks, her hand pausing in its exploration.

Though his answer is much more important than her silly ministrations. Maybe he thinks it stupid, and before Sansa can help herself a small blush starts to heat her cheeks. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, she’s been going by instinct and what if it’s all wrong—

Her laugh joins his, distracting her from her thoughts. “Work on the first, Jaime. You already have the second.”

He’s had her for longer than he likely knows, but it doesn’t matter. She is his, and now he knows. That’s what’s important.

“First the dead, and then we’ll have the rest our lives for everything else.”

**_j a i m e:_ **

_ Always,  _ he thinks, as her fingers trail over the coarse hair along his jawline. Cersei had always hated beards or any facial hair at all. She thought it made men look and act like barbarians. When Sansa’s fingers stroke across his cheek, though, he couldn’t feel further from it. “Yes,” he says with a swallow, his fingers once more finding that spot on her wrist as he holds her hand in place. 

Even the way she says his name cuts through him. He finds himself wondering if she’d ever tried it on her tongue those days when she’d thought of him early on. He doesn’t want to think of what it would’ve sounded like later, but right now, soft and jubilant, it sounds like a wish answered. 

He laughs again, struck by how crazy this is. Standing in the Godswood of Winterfell, pledging himself to Ned Stark’s daughter, as they await an onslaught of dead. It’s insanity, and yet it feels  _ right.  _

Never Alayne. It’s always been Sansa. 

“First the dead, then everything else.” 

He presses his lips to her forehead, enjoying it this time, letting himself linger. 

Right up until the horns sound. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it! We know it's a little bit of a cliffhanger, and maybe someday we'll post another installment, but this felt like a good place to end the initial arc. Any direction we take after this will be much bigger and much more political, and this was only ever meant to be a bit of thought experiment, and a trial run to see if we could ever actually manage slow burn xD 
> 
> We hope you enjoyed it! Let us know what you think!


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